Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Poem of the day: Old Boston, memories of...

We ducked the serrated winds of November
by cramming ourselves through the door
of the Firehouse Pub.
Laughing, we shook the cold
into memory and
found ourselves up against
last call.

Two brothers,
looking like they had been
twins since the world was new,
stood and stooped at the
open mic and piano,
playing old Billy Joel songs,
(but only those from The Stranger

With your freshly-ex's credit card
We bought a round for everyone
And we closed that bar down that night
Singing, "Only the Good Die Young."

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