Bury me in Boston
the city so far from perfect.
The place that hides its messes so tactfully under stories of glass
Ah, White Mecca,
the pain we have caused.

A flood of molasses has preserved us
in an earlier time
we bind our books in human skin.

We like to think only ghosts walk the unused tracks of the MBTA
throwing rocks at school busses but

I’ve seen people down there.

Bury me in Boston
gospel of growth
so that one day I can be there
when things are better.

.   _ .   _   . .   . . _ . .   . _.    . _ .   . _ _ _ .      .   _ .      _ . . .   _ _ _   . . .   _   _ _ _   _ .