Park Street Under

It was a minor business matter,

someone to see, some end of life plans,

and rather than confront the new tunnel

he thought he’d take the train.

A simple trip he’d made a thousand times,

though the last one, when or why he couldn’t say.

He boarded, sat, and dozed.

At North Station, the orange polished oak seats

were familiar. Nothing more.

His fingers brushed that gleaming wood, he sat

considering arrows to exits.

Beside him, a girl with feathery pink hair

asked, “Excuse me, can I borrow your phone?”

The request he found so absurd

he answered in a high unnatural voice,

“No, I don’t have a phone.”

The subway can’t have changed much, he thought.

But he got on the orange line instead of the green.

No, he could find Boylston Street from anywhere,

but when he walked upstairs Downtown,

there was no Filene’s, no Jordan Marsh.

He did not know

where he was

and he would be damned

if he would ask one of these boys or girls

not yet conceived when this city was his.

He walked the wrong way several times,

found Boylston Street,

looked at the number on the paper from his pocket,

and forgot what it was for.

He crossed the street, descended to the green line,

looked at the sign, got on a train and smiled

to remember the band called The Park Street Under,

a clever name he always thought.

They played in coffeehouses and sang about troubles in the world

so sincerely, he could see them, how they looked

on that smokey little stage.

On the train ride home, he looked beyond

the reflection of the white-haired man.

Trees and hills farthest back bowed and nodded gracefully

moving slowly right to left,

but branches and bushes closest to the window sped by so fast

they were blurred, then invisible.