South Station

He passes me in South Station — 

his duffel bag more duct tape than fabric,
his hair a stiff, frayed field, 
his sweatshirt bearing the words
showing from under his puffy coat —

and I hear him
softly but emphatically repeating


as he goes out 
unapologetically into
slushy old Boston’s
colonial headwaters,

that universal password
upon his chapped lips.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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