The story of this poem: Recently, I moved from my adopted hometown of Somerville, Massachusetts, into Boston proper. Now that the college kids are back in town, the people-watching during my commute back into my old neighborhood is excellent (if a little hazardous when the kiddos walk against the light).
SEPTEMBER IN BOSTON It’s September in Boston. Brick streets, thick with hopeful faces: Young folks, making first homes in freshly rented apartments in basements, Feeling the tightly-packed hope that lives in moving boxes, all taped-up. Or maybe I’m projecting my own thoughts? How obnoxious, Harkening back to when I got my first shot at nesting, When I tricked the spiders into letting me out of the web, The day I got a chance to be the only person in my head, When I found some space to make mistakes and have some fun. I let the world do its testing. I passed every one. I breathe the sea air, unpolluted, Through a helmet I look cute in, As I ride across the river to work in my old neighborhood. I wonder what people think about me as I fly by: Maybe one of them could make me feel understood? Anything’s possible (In September in Boston).
Thank you so much for reading my work.
See you next week.
