Whining shrills and drum-beat thuds
shatter the evening’s black-glass calm.
Like Ramadi air raids or sectarian blasts
the air pulsates in shock therapy;
cloudless skies give way to varicolored orbs
discharging their smoky excesses
like sulphuric fumes from the nostrils of Hell.
Those who congregate on the esplanade
watch the spectacle then shuffle home in droves.
And on a Red Line rail car at Charles/MGH,
a dreadlocked guitarist yells at the train man
to stop letting so many folks in.