Only here, in New England, can you experience
four seasons in a week, hardly leaving your room.
In this small town, a man can become delirious
on a clear night and howl at a half-a-moon.
At the local coffee shop, you can encounter
homeless Harvard graduates, reeking of cheap booze
and recognize Lady Madonna behind the counter
whose concealing makeup covers her nightly bruise.
Here, in the city of clocks, everything is routine;
the postman is never late with your morning paper,
you have no identity, only your shadow’s seen
dragging itself across the oblivious pavement.
It is here that the best years of your life are spent
carelessly, with no concern for your lungs and liver,
still ignoring the fact that your future’s at hand,
skinny dipping with stars in the dirty river.