Boston Poem

November. LaPorte, Indiana. Twenty degrees and windy

Boston Poem

I am strung
between two points.

I am hammered into dust
beneath the gravel
of an Indiana highway.

I am colder now
than the ends
of this road
twisted
into twin spires
of ice.

I am singing
vulgar songs,
strumming
with numb fingers
this sign
around my neck
I have painted yellow
and lettered to read

BOSTON