BOSTON

Dear T--,

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.

Boston

London

Rome

Florence

Edinburgh

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