Thursday, May 9, 2013

Boston (with video)


She spread the curtains wide
And the morning light thundered in,
Like brown bay waves rolling
Into a shore
It was a good morning
And she could feel its light
Seeping into the cracks of her
She never knew existed
The light was warm and welcome
As it washed away the dreams of the night
Until they were merely memories
It dusted old cobwebs from her mind
And made the day seem easier to begin.


Her eyes, they watered and teared
The slowly focused on a huge
White blanket unfolded beneath her
And although it was spotted here and there
With the needle sting of pine
It was still perfect,
The sun dancing on its top
Sparkling, shinning, hypnotic,
With few people about
To wrinkle that blanked
In a storm of muddy boots
And snow-caked tires


She turned away,
Thinking and dreaming dreams
That the sunlight could never dampen,
It was of one man
Her man and she,
Dancing, loving, playing
But stained with oil stains,
Her man, his car, and she,
he, driving his car,
And she watching,
Jealous, impatient, sorry,
Hearing the words of “Someday soon,”
And Judy Collins’ voice
Racing in her head,
As the cars ripped around the track
Dust winning and
The spectators’ eyes losing


She turned back to the window,
Staring out, but not seeing,
Hearing the birds sing,
And the snow drift,
but listening only to his voice,
a slow steady voice
with its Boston drawl
competing with the purr of his engines
then she heard the sound of his clutch
and he was gone,
gone to the blue skies of summer,
the cool autumn leaves
burning sweetly in their pastures
like grass learning to grow
in the spring,
but gone, really, physically gone
when the snows come,
for Boston cries louder in his ears
than the echoed wind of Colorado,
her man, Boston, his car, and she.


A lone tear trickled down her cheek,
She didn’t want to let it go,
But neither could she stop it,
So down it fell, crashing to the floor,
Searching for dust to drink,
She felt lonely, while knowing that people
Around her, were beginning to wake,
Breaking their morning fast, and
Meeting the pale frozen sludge
With shovels in their hands,
They seemed like toy soldiers,
Marching to battle, fighting the white,
Winning only until the next snowfall,
Those little people, swimming in the snow.
Do they know who they are?
Her man, the little people, the snow, Boston, his car, and she.


She heard a motor cough,
And her heart beat a little faster,
Knowing all the while
It can’t be him, Boston,
It can’t be him, his mother,
But still, she had hope,
Clinging to threads and dreams
Like a spider in her lair
Clings to the web,
She sees that these are the things
The ties holding her down,
But still she dreams,
Her man, his mother, the little people, the snow, Boston, his car, and she.


It was not him,.
As the car went by,
And she secretly and silently cursed
The lure of Boston,
Wishing she could steal its charms
Hold its beauty,
And keep its man,
Her man,


She drew the curtain again
Knowing in her mind
That when he comes back in the spring
This time
She wouldn’t be there
Somewhere it would be
Her man and she,
Her man and she
Her man, love, caring and she
Maybe forever,
Maybe not.

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