Chess players in Harvard Square
Beantown Madrigal
© 2001 by PJ Nights

I. Drinks after work

Still love my old friend, that trailer-trash boy,
incognito in suit of banker’s-gray,
yuppie camouflage I cannot betray.

He’d rather have a cocktail dress decoy,
me, but not in my frayed jeans of today.
     I still see him laughing, trailer-trash boy,
     serious now in tailored banker’s-gray.

My mind is with Harvard Square hoi polloi,
not here with Quincy Market bar cliché,
little black dresses, and power display.
     I love my friend still, that trailer-trash boy,
     in spite of the suit, duds in banker’s-gray.
     The camouflage he needs, I won't betray.

II. Ditching the suit wannabe

"Long day, need some sleep. I gotta go now,"
I say, planning a walk to the Red Line,
a stop at the packie for cheap red wine.

Detour over Mother Goose’s grave, chow
pretzel on the Common, all is so fine.
     "I'm tired, work was hell. I gotta go now,"
     I said before this trek to the Red Line.

I emerge as city night’s concubine
and try to absorb the street person tao.
Puffed-up pigeons are the park’s sacred cow.
     "I'll call you next week. I gotta go now,"
     I told him. I escape on the Red Line,
     holding my paper bag of cheap red wine.

III. Becoming a groupie

I want to rock on his hand, my blue jeans
low on hips - to be caught in his wrist pin,
captured by the man with the mandolin.

Courtyard brie and bread at Au Bon Pain, queen’s
move checkmates. Leave to search for Dylan’s twin,
     to rock with white skin exposed above jeans
     hugging hips - dream of dark alley wrist pin.

He’s in front of the Coop. Underage teens,
groupies groove the beat. Brown-paper wineskin
to my lips, I think of after-show sin.
     And I rock on his hand with my blue jeans
     pushed low. Caught in a dark alley wrist pin,
     I tongue kiss the man with the mandolin.