Boston

Winged skulls carved in slate, Colonists’ gravestones leaning, marred, Cradle of independence, The baby grown old. Sounds of horns and motors Far below an conditioned room, Charles River bearing remains of fallen night— Fastfood boxes, Butts of smoking bans, Condoms of success and failure, Constitution and prostitution, Flowing in stale current From England to New England. Under brown fog of hurricane end, Matrons on Beacon Hill Send plumbers to kitchen doors In a land begun by tradesmen. Debauched? Ready to crumble from within? As England, so the USA? Perhaps another New World Another cradle Not on this globe. I care and fail to care, No longer strive toward beginnings, No longer strive to strive. New world become old, An inheritance, A place to make do.