Originally published in Plainsongs, XXXVII.3, Spring 2017.
The Old Dry Dock
It's ninety-five degrees at three o'clock,
and humid as New Orleans in the Hub.
A boozy Monday. Whiskey. Classic rock.
Amanda keeps 'em comin' as we talk
baseball and politics. Cool in the pub,
but ninety-five outside at three o'clock.
She tells a sloppy lush, Hey, take a walk.
He mouths off on the way out. Poor schlub,
blasted after shots and '70s rock.
St John's Episcopal was on this block.
Closed down for good. There's a gay nightclub
a street or two away. By four o'clock
some regulars at Boston's Old Dry Dock
go home to bed, to couch, to cold white tub
after a day of hooch and gray-haired rock.
Professor, call girl, clergywoman, jock
rub elbows with poet and cop. This sub-
terranean West End dive turns back the clock
with "Fat Bottomed Girls" and "Crocodile Rock."
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2019-03-27 at 13:39
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