December.

Once upon a rain in Boston, I fell down. Below the red carpet dusty megaphones were singing. Carol tides.

Don’t you wanna go home, they said, I do. Well then just go home they said, I will. April would be perfect, they roast frapped berries in yonder park. Is that where home is, they asked, dunno. In a dream he was just a baby, helpless beyond the thunderous night. His hair was long, thick black and smooth like an Asian beauty that you will never get to know.

I’ve been workin’, he said, workin’ hard. Chopping down Christmas trees, dragging them with trucks. Here’s what I’ve got he said, his mouth foul with beer. Was this the man I saw in him? I ran away and ran on, basketball park. Yellow jackets flow, I flew with them home. Flew with them home, flew flew with them home.

Falling in Boston down is no light matter, cigarettes. Never a flight less. Buckle up and sleep, now. And drink on.