Groggy, at first, you think a bulb's burnt out.
But, the clock is off. The hum is gone.
An unfamiliar silence has returned.
Maybe it's just your room, but there's no water.
Maybe it's just the inn, but out the window,
Against the trees the only light is the snow.
The valley down to Littleton is dark.
And so you wonder how far the failure goes:
This town; a few towns over; or did it start
Beyond the notch, spread all the way from Boston?
Because the silence seems so large, because
It's late at night, you wonder if there might
Have been a great catastrophe that changed
Everything on the other side of the mountains.
Though that would be an ugly, selfish thought,
Standing there looking out the window, and
Feeling the cold creep through the watery glass,
There is, engaged, a part of you—admit it!—
That wouldn't mind the starting all over again;
The desperate part of you that longs
For winter, and a covering of snow.
When Boston Wins the Series
The throngs along the Esplanade;
The Charles crowded with light.
We'll be convinced there is a God—
This time, the world set right.
We'll feel the city roar in bliss
As we pass the Elliot bar:
Enough relief and happiness
To raise the evening star.
We'll find a place to rest our feet
Upon a Fenway stair.
You'll take my hand on Lansdowne Street,
Kiss me in Kenmore Square:
We'll see replayed that winning run
This patient town deserves,
And find, again, the sacred in
The geometry of curves.
Both poems are excerpted from Too Much Explanation Can Ruin a Man, David Roberts Books, 2005.
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