print previewback WYN COOPER
Somerville Avenue
Entering the atmosphere
the beat of wings grows louder,
the wings not wings but wonders
as speakers hung from streetlights sing
Hark! the angels herald brightly.
Jets lift off from Logan, their contrails
parallel in late Atlantic light,
hark the angels serving cocktails
who herald flight so brightly.
This checkerboard street
steers cars southeast, toward
Brahmin vistas that harken back
to cows on the Common.
Underpasses pass by the sign-holding men
who seek alms with palms turned weary
from weather; the cars pass quickly.
Flags flap half-mast in wind that smells
of Portuguese barbeque
no longer on the menu,
the lounge closed for repairs.
But hark! the yellow monarchs,
their wings a spotted map
that waves to angels brightly—
their presence heralds spring
and neverending rain. 