Weekend in Massachusetts

Roll on down the hill, feel the wind and the rush of temptation,

Draw me a portrait, of its slope and its turbulence eroding your face, 

blades of grass, blurring metaphors. Later you crawl into bed with

yourself and one too many pillows. The cup on the table whispers "myth"

And you're back on the crest of the hill, near the bakery and

your old house, where they called you a hero. Smell where the sand

sleeps, where the granite steps fade away into a beach, from your old house up around

the corner, a place my uncle watched through his telescope, and I with him, the sound

salient and slowing near the deep end of the neck. They all have good

jokes out there, they wrote them in advance 

They know people with names like Pettigrew and Constance,

and names like Willy are accepted until your thirty. The ice cream

stand is the social center of the town, where I'm from the scene

is grocery stores and cigarettes and looking for answers to questions

we never securely tied down, at the top of the hill before we rushed down

for good. I crawl into bed in my uncles attic, and like clockwork I see the mound

out near the baseball diamond. Out there, they love the patron saint of hopeless causes,

myths and ground balls drooping between your ankles. I define my life when it pauses,

and there is time.

There is time to not look at my watch

There is time to sit on porches and talk about my father.

There is time to walk down the spit to the club and dive in head first, little legs underwater.

There is time to coast, and say goodbye to what wasn't mine

There is time to ponder

There is time to dip my feet in near the edge of the dock and wonder.

Then I'm on the south side of town again, and I look at my watch until I can't look any longer.

My legs cramp up, so I go into the back of the trailway, and the mixture of piss and shit rattles,

I come back to work, and the gravel seems different now, it seems like it missed me, this battle

wasn't a battle. It was the way things are.

I look at my watch.

The band had rotten and broken off.

I threw it somewhere in the bottom of my pocket.

I roll on down the hill with you, you know, our wagons fuse is nearly done my rocket

is your rocket.