Orange leaves have not yet fallen in the Charles,
Though curbside collection is scheduled,
On our ranch house roof nor’easter rains rumble,
Uneasy is to rest in Watch City,
As I lie, I’ve a longing,
For a home I left longer ago
Than actually I lived there,
Where my heart remains the age of seven,
And then future was a word bearing promises
Of releif from childhood stricture,
Rather than fifty-seven, here to
Look down the lip of the slew
And into the tin-silver chutes
Of diminishing age
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