by Paul C. Binotto
Boston Harbor, plump old daughter of the Revolution, exhausted
But content from the rigors of a tightly bobby-pinned, puritanical day,
Sits stuffed in her bath. Her fleshy legs and heels propped,
straddling the edges of the tub.
Buoyant breasts and hips, gently bobbing above the water's surface,
She silently contemplates, through squinted eyes, the murky
Green vastness of her most distant and glorious memories.
Until, the rising tides of sleep gradually submerge her in dreams
Of tomorrow. Away she drifts, unconscious, of the eyes that spy her,
From such great heights, before a muffled snore escapes into the night.