Pops

Pops

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.

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