It’s Harvard Square in sun and the kids are back in town. I walk
about making words with my mouth: Jjsh…jjsh…jshandelier.
All the crazy old guys are reading the New York Review of Books
while their dentures clack like plastic chandeliers.
I am rendered extra-terrestrial by a panama hat, and I am proud
to note that pedestrians fear me, my top-heavy person dangerous as a loose chandelier.
If I’d attended better schools, would those I love be turning blue?
Would their mausoleums be many-tiered, would their funeral homes be chandeliered?
The drunks and I relish the sun at 11 am:
we got girls packed into little skirts, and beers; we don’t need no chandeliers.
Blue braces the pink sky at both ends; that’s where all the action is.
Let’s spend our whole nights, lives, eons underneath that big fucking chandelier!
— A poem written in collaboration with Shafer Hall, originally published in Snow Monkey v7 n1