marginal street

weaving its way
between oil tanks and forgotten cars
is a mile and a half
of broken pavement
where the shadows
tower above the reeds
and the river
on shores of broken glass.
I swore
that the sun would never shine
on the Chelsea waterfront
your hair
clean and bright
like the New England countryside
where we knew the stars by name.
we walked
along that lonely street
counting the steps
between where we were
and the sanctuary
of your bed.

Paul David Mena
31 August 1996
Acton, MA

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