published in The Skeleton Holding Up the Sky and The South Dakota Review 

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Here, where all the roads lead to IBM,

I once convinced a stranger in a kilt

To go home and come back with his bagpipes

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So he could entertain us all. He played

With the same certainty of morning

And evening rush hour. He brought some

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To tears. Here, where the mountains

Are so close and the rain rumbles in

Off the Hudson, people notice small beauties.

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No hospital, no morgue, just five bars

For those getting through life on misery and sweat.

The pool table is always in use,

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The bathroom graffiti always illuminating—

Who knew the guy at the jukebox had a heart so full

His only escape is with a felt marker?

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Here, we sit in a town surrounded by two prisons,

Two more reminders of the outside world

That shuttles through twice a day,

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Drivers stopping only if the light turns red

Or if they suddenly find themselves

Turning down the main road, headed for a noise

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They can’t believe they are hearing, a noise like

They used to hear at home, when that was a good place,

Coming from a small white bar they’ve never noticed.

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