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.

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.