Part one of two
Go to part two
It's nearly the same: the busker playing the Beatles
in the T, the shucked peanut shells at Fenway
chucked under the bleachers, the odd brick
upturned on the sidewalk outside the Yard. The yeasty smell
of beer and beans has faded somewhat; it's also harder to find
that round stone marking the center (you know, the one
around the corner from the Union Oyster House)
since it's not marked on the map I bought
at Christie's to jog my memory. I hoped an eight
would be rowing down the Charles, but it was too cold.
I saw a range of shamrocked goods in a shop
and thought of you, and the time we got off at Andrews
to watch the St. Patrick's Day parade and how upset
I was when they knew I wasn't from there.