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.