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 The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 244 times
Written on 2019-03-27 at 13:39

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antoniya katelieva-wood The PoetBay support member heart!
I love it and it is nice writed, well done Thomas

Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
I love it. The atmosphere is captured and the rhymes are great.

josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
BRAVO ZULU, MY FRIEND! Love it And love dive bars. Youíve reminded me of one I wrote a few years ago that Iíll post as a tribute to you and this fine poem!

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
So casually formal as to go unnoticed at first. Now I see why our English teachers always graded on form and content, one complements the other.

This is endearing, the formless setting of the bar, the formal setting in which you've framed. it.