Prattle on endlessly and make certain that the aquarium in the Indian restaurant overlooks those who chose the buffet style dinner.
Glass walls that bounce back the city bus in all its glory are merely reflectors of what’s actually going on in the piss and dirty streets of Cambridge.
The lofty are ploughed under and the musical is betting on the sweet sound of the Bolivian flute to send them to the other side where they will find the Promised Land.
Couched in clichés, we corner ourselves in hot summer late afternoons where the in-goers and street hangers wish kiosk doom on the token holders.
The hum and brazen criss cross of car horns curls dangerously around the narrow roads that wax historic in all their blue parking sign,--(P sign on corner)—splendor. A bite of warm and friendly Chinese food and then a thick room temperature Guinness at the Black Sheep and the sudden doorway bum frightens me and how I wish I could park somewhere and get on with it already---