South Boston Chills

South Boston roots,

cold milk, oyster crackers, and fists held tightly at all times,

Irish walking cab hats,

freshly bleached wife beaters hanging from the line,

spring is spring again,

I’m just a little bit older,

one season less the colder winds,

born new days with liquid Tide brightness,

though as south Boston streets gave it,

the painter of our alleys,

throws some charcoal across the canvass of our block,

my starched tank top clings to my bony chest,

the soot of the days future drifts along within the air in which I step into,

I light a cigarette,

only to find that it’s a Newport

must have been left in my pocket from the Spanish girl last night,

I blink slowly because the vision of her

coat,

lifts my head a little higher,

still…

I’m pissed, cause I hate menthol,

wrong moves to make, long hours to break,

even longer when no smiles at stake,

handful of cash, but nothings open yet,

I notice a curb looking comfortable,

so I,

sit, think, and live only what I can explain,

as the good parts of the days back then

By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell / LiveFiction.net