There's a dampness in the air
as a biting cutting wind
tries to seep into my lungs
in old Boston
not so far from the bay.
I skip and stumble over cobblestones
and run my fingers over granite tombs
that history left for me to see
along the Freedom Trail.
Revere - Hancock - Franklin
Squirrels burrow in the fallen leaves
hunting secrets I can not see
and scurry from my footsteps.
I marvel at the names etched and faded there
"…Here lies the body of..."
It's cold in Boston
very cold - and damp
and a vagrant lies on a bench
oblivious to me and history
I do not acknowledge him
but my mind's eye takes in
the thin worn jacket
the newspapers he's wrapped around his legs
the age-old stubble gray upon his chin
I huddle closer inside my coat
and slip my hand inside the pocket
of the man beside me
the man who will give me of his warmth
and make me feel like I belong.
Tune the Violin
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