Our Parade in Boston Saint Patrick weaves a ring of snakes around his neck. So we can walk among the stones. So we can dance in Southie’s fanged parade. Patrick drinks green beer all day, blind to what a priest wears, what O’Brien swears is the prettiest man marching. His legs are hers. The tap gives good head. Foam snakeskin. Boston pours a curb for us. Until five o’clock. The streets are swept. Paddy is a singing wagon. A snake’s drunk tank. Inside we raise a fist. To everyone who dared to dance. Who has a friend to call. To bail us out.
Posted on: Wed, 05 Mar 2014 15:13:51 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015