Riding the Red Line
listening to the clickety-clack,
as the train meanders
through changing scenery –
farmland melding into small towns,
and the emergence into a city scape –
into that bastion of colonial America –
that piece of history of the revolution –
that city on the Charles River,
where college students scull in perfect symmetry –
the Red Sox and fabled Fenway Park –
that place known as Beantown –

I know this city –
its Museum of Fine Arts and
Boston Aquarium, where my sons viewed ocean life
up close and personal –
the No Name Restaurant
on the waterfront –
Tucci’s in the North End,
where we’d always order “Steak Mafia”
just to hear the waitress shout it out
to the entire restaurant –
Southie and the Bunker Hill memorial –
and good old Faneuil Hall, with its art shows,
street musicians, shops and throngs of people.

Boston, the home of the beloved
Marathon, now forever swathed
in the blood of the innocent.

And this day of bloodshed
is just another reminder of those who show
such disregard for life.

What could possibly prompt someone
to cause such pain, such anguish for so many –
to kill a small child,
cut down a woman in the prime of her life,
and snuff out the promise of a young foreign student,
far away from her grieving family?
Someone, please give me the answer,
because all I see now
are horrific images of carnage
in a city so dear to my heart.

© April 17, 2013 Jane Lynahan Karklin


2 thoughts on “Boston

  1. Thank you, Jane for writing such a passionate poem. Your vivid descriptions, love and knowledge were felt throughout “Boston”. Please know that I standing in solidarity with the world community in denouncing this senseless and horrific attack. My condolences and prayers to those who lost a love one. I extend my prayers for a speedy recovery to those injured.

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