Coming  Back  to  Boston


Maybe we want this miraculous

    comeback—winning from three goals

down with an empty net of minutes

    to play—not for our sake. But more

for the possible day, perhaps still

    a month away—more games left

to be played and won—when we’ll

    come to flood the streets with ourselves.

Sidewalk-standing, children-on-our-

    shoulders-raising. Waiting for the cup

to be player-raised. Here, in Boston,

    police-motorcycle-escorted. The team,

bearded and skate-weary, waving from

    the improbable decks of the city’s

celebrated, Bruins-decorated duck boats-

    quacking. You can see I’m imagining,

if not predicting. Restoring the memory

    of the last cup-winning. For the sake

of those fans, not more than a few streets

    away, who came to see their runners-

finishing. And themselves were bloodied

    and taken away. Some died. All pledged

to come back to stand here, cheering.

    Street-filling. Window-waving. Not

to be building-bounded. Yet still

    able to be black and gold towel-waving.

Remembering the miracle of another

    day. Not easy to say. To see the earned