The old Bridge St. Block of bars and cafes

where the afternoon beers flow with quick notebook scribbles in the far corner

where the soft blue music is seeping always under downtown pub doors

and branches pounded by the seaside breeze drum against unlit bedroom windows of

marijuana apartments and big maritime house row

where a steady stream of life and chatter sits back to back with quiet empty nooks

where it all harmonizes well with my late-night thought.

Broken-glass-crunch under my shoe on the stone steps across the pharmacy

and I cross through the crack between two brick walls where

you blow smoke in the wind, spit in puddles,  piss

in the alleyway shadow.

It all draws sharp and cold, and smells of marsh, everywhere I run off to,

mumbling in my head,

looking for a good epiphany.

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