There’s the sloping streets

that always lead to someone’s secret.

 

There’s the ocean

that is the womb of prayers.

 

There’s the friendships

that come and go

within a flash of an eye.

 

I miss it all.

 

The panhandlers

corner of marginal way

and that other street

that Trader Joe’s is on-

I learned so much from their humility.

 

The houses on the west end,

Sherman street,

look like they came from a child’s dream-

gently leaning,

paint fading,

but something sweet in the heart of them.

 

I Miss it all.

 

I miss those who won’t talk to me anymore,

perhaps for fear of their own mortality,

or – more likely – something

selfish I did or said.

 

They were all women.

 

I wait for their calls

like a cat

looking out of a window.

 

They never come,

as the sunset in Boston sets

and I shake off these stinging,

bright regrets.

 

And I miss all of them.