At each town line the old town roads change names
To take the name of where you’re coming from:
The Chester Road will bring you into Derry,
Derry Road ends at the Chester green.
Confusion wasn’t built in by design—
The roads were laid like spokes on wagon wheels
To serve the farms that long ago moved west—
But this arrangement’s hard on travelers
Who simply want to get from place to place.
What these towns need is a Copernicus
To tell them that the center lies without,
And agencies to legislate that roads
That run between them share a common name.
And yet, when sitting on the bench behind
Two cannons and a monument to boys
Who went, when asked, to save that wider world,
But never came back down these wrong-named roads,
I see the possibility: perhaps
The towns were right. All roads don’t lead to Rome;
They do, however, radiate from home.
While one hand is content to touch, admire
A balanced, careful weave—preserve for viewing
The beauty and the boundaries of desire—
The other hand is busy at undoing.
The quiet hand counsels restraint; afraid
To wreck the composition of composure,
It’s wary of destruction just for fun.
The other wants to slip between each braid,
To tease apart the strands, let run, spill over,
Release, unbind, what was so neatly done.
Your urgent kiss decides which hand is played.
A gentle pull brings argument to closure.
Surprised, my hands attempt to catch your hair:
It falls the way the rain lets go the air.
When Boston Wins the Series
The throngs along the Esplanade;
The Charles crowded with light.
We’ll be convinced there is a God—
This time, the world set right.
We’ll feel the city roar in bliss
As we pass the Elliot bar:
Enough relief and happiness
To raise the evening star.
We’ll find a place to rest our feet
Upon a Fenway stair.
You’ll take my hand on Lansdowne Street,
Kiss me in Kenmore Square:
We’ll see replayed that winning run
This patient town deserves,
And find, again, the sacred in
The geometry of curves.