Not so-fellow-travelers thought Joe Walsh would’ve made greater music if he lived a cleaner life.
“Not the fucking Eagles,” I said several times (and mentioned Keith Richards).

I related a childhood memory of an object melting pond ice in the very New Hampshire town where we gathered.
Heard of people scaring the shit out of themselves, especially in choruses.

Took the ferry to Lynn, Lynn, the city of sin.
So beautifully oceanic and cool to escape the summer heat.

But poorly signed and still dismal.
A fire erupts, a ferry passenger says, in a homeless encampment.

It’s not crickets, like some TV people say.
It’s sheep.

Young confident tour guides on travel videos annoy me to no end.
Talk with new foods in their young mouths as their partners look on.

Some colleagues thought reality began the instant they were born.
History may not repeat but you should know something about the fucking past.

Late summer, avoiding houseguest, I walk down the street on a rainy night.
By the Church of the goddamned Good Shepherd.

A woman crosses to the other side of the street.
And I don’t blame her.