Boston

There is a boy in front of a monitor

with his fingers on the keys

typing so furiously about being on his knees

he has been begging for a change

his cries are heard but disregarded

apartment a mess, empty bottles

and flies that need to be killed

the boy is still pounding at the keys

trying to get some emotion out

he can only manage to sweat

and build up an appetite

"it's time for a break"

an open door

and the patter of footfall on steps

a restaurant on Boston ave

his normal retreat for coffee

or a one night stand

pool table lighted, smoke and coughs

he sits down in the back corner

devoid of most patrons, except a few

much like him, deserters of art

at least for a few hours

a pretty girl with pretty shaped eyes

she's sitting two tables across from him

a wink and a nod from the boy

silhouetted now by ceiling fan fixtures

she ambled elegantly towards him

and joined the boy for a drink

they talked of poems and bicycles

while their feet toyed with one another

the boy couldn't help but notice

that he had written about her for nights

dark skin from the summer sun

blue eyes from Scotland

hair the color of trees in the winter

money on the table, a tip

and another closed door

followed by a walk back down Boston ave

the pitter-patter of apartment building stairs

this time the tapping came in pairs

an open door

came to a close