Poem of the Day 01.18.23

stuck inside of boston, with the london blues again

the table full of young women next to us
can’t talk below shouts

and the place is packed on a saturday night

my wife and i tried getting dinner here two hours ago
when it was six o’clock

but the restaurant was booked
with farts older than us

so we drank vodka back in the hotel room
talking about how hungry we were

the lost art of travel
and how boring boston is in the rain

and now i’m a little drunk
and a little mad at myself

for wanting to be in london instead of here

london seems to thrive in the rain

and though i find it hard to feel good anywhere
i feel good when i’m there

it is after eight now
and the young have taken over the restaurant

most of the tables are like the one next to us
they are full of young people shouting

drinking bottles of expensive wine
waiting on mediocre, equally expensive italian food

not minding dull and rainy boston at all

i don’t envy their youth
just their bank accounts

when i was their age

i couldn’t waste a saturday night
spending my cash in a place like this

life was dive bars and fast food
fast conversation and bleary mornings
that began at noon

now i look back
more than i look forward

i think how i’d rather not be a man who craves dinner at six
and says phrases like, when i was their age

wishing that i was in rain-soaked london
instead of rain-soaked boston

or back in the hotel room
drinking more vodka and eating stale cheez-its

but here i am
stuck with my own cold truth

at a tiny table in
antonio’s restaurant, cambridge street

a tired and drunken
middle-aged man

who often fails to appreciate small things
within their given moment

silent and sullenly working on the house red
the half-warm chicken parmigiana

dreading the thought
of the coming bill

as the fine art of conversation and the evening
both slip on by.