The shithole streets are frosted glass,
No pain, no cars, no stars. No early morning
Rotgut waft from the blue haze off Nahant.
The desolate neighbors Lighthouse Tattoo
And the Fountain of Life Apostolic Church
Shine an icy drool through the windows and
Into the warm “cutting edge recovery” line
Which includes cookie monster pajama pants,
Sunglasses for under the fluorescent ballasts,
Bundled children’s happy questions answered
With “Your dad is the laziest man alive – sleeps
15 hours a day.” Behind
them a man claims he
Owns a chain of vaping stores: “Went to get my
Juice – said there were no royalties — face-to-face,
You’re in Kentucky now – I need to get a lawyer.”
They talk as if their life depended on their wit
And back-room connections. “Oh yeah I remember
You, we used to sell food stamps together
With Blaze at that check-cashing front they raided
Next to Bunghole Liquors in Danvers.” They seem
As content as any with the condition of the roads,
The fact that the candlepin lanes have closed,
The cruelty in every booted cry for approval,
And laugh like they aren’t the punchline in a town
That never realized it is dead — that much they know,
For wearing the robes of the living is so much more fun
Now, with burglaries turned to work-release careers
And the kindness of strange nurses a perpetual
Lady of obligation. The past, like everything else, is
too
Painful. Still, like the possible not yet polluted mussels,
Some talk may go uncorrected, like how the dog
With the different colored eyes wags her tail.
