the romance of Botolph’s in the cafe
of the barefoot moon which had found me
in its romance was almost eating up the
lost smoke of the fourteen hills
I’m no boyfriend
being there for a while in the dark
was lost in the romance of the buskers
and topped off with a swinger bar
on Tremont where we had no dinner
all the sparks figured in
that moon at Botolph’s when we just
splashed our faces with a little
grapefruit into the vodka was when
the romance ate me up
it had been a while
