2:} Dark Retreat Of Self

The shadow world of the esplanade
stills my tormented mind into contemplation.
Toward familiar heavens I reason about a motive
behind life filled with pain and isolation. In stoical
faith I plead for relief from this unbearable gift
lacking purpose for a worthier future.
The cryptic answer is always
mine, never
His...


Vapors
from the
squalid Muddy
River temper into the
glacial flow of the Charles.

Darkened banks outline in ice
the river’s course toward its dams
of oceanic obscurity. On the Mass Ave.
Bridge and Memorial Drive vehicles chase
each other silently. No city sounds disturb
the peace and solemness of this dark,
private world. Nearly-bare trees
and brush carve the lagoons
into areas where walkway
and footbridge
serenely
traverse
hidden
reserves.

Beacon Street's
brownstones provide
a still cradle of warmth.
Occasional waves of salty air
waft from the harbor. Bands of
seagulls drift along in mum circles.
At river level ducks
and geese congregate
where ice tapers into water.

Pigeons’ peck
at trails of squirrels
diligently on their life
and death quest to accumulate
stores of food for the coming winter.
They scamper in search of secret spots
to dig holes that must be committed
to memory, plop out a nut or two
from stuffed cheeks, then
quickly cover them
from prying
eyes.

A five
minute stroll
brings me to the
Hatch Shell where
I light a butt and marvel
at how small it seems to be.
Circling the structure to the frosty
grass of the audience area confirms my
assessment. The walkway leads past the
private boat club after which the Community
Boat House sits frozen before the hovering

Salt and Pepper Bridge!
A course of lessons there last
summer got me into a sailboat,

but I didn’t care too much for it
and probably won’t
go again.

Passing
Mass General,
I look up to the
window of the room
where I was a patient
during third grade after
my encounter with Marty.

The walkway
eventually narrows all
riperion strolling before
ending at the
Museum of
Science.

Still
full of energy
and enjoying the
crisp evening alone, I
don't want to turn back yet.

Charlestown,
where my
grandparents live,
seems almost within
shouting distance. They
were all murdered years ago
by the venomous fangs of her cruelty;
the same visciousness I’ve spent a lifetime
trying to avoid. Taken inexplicably from our lives,
they may as well all have died long ago, yet
they didn’t nor haven’t. I have
prayed many times
that she
would.

The expanse
of the Prison Point
Bridge leads the way
to my grandparent’s house.
I light a smoke and begin to cross
over for an unexpected visit. They’ll be
really surprised to see me when they open
their door and realize I still think of them
and care enough to visit on my own.
I'm a freshman at Mission High and
old enough to go where I want.
Besides, I’ll be home
long before she
gets back!