Everett

I'm stained with the stench of my home town tearing,

from the Bel-Nes Cafe to the Sportscenter Lounge.

Viscous remembrances of paternal delrium,

dripping down Hewitt and Broadway and Hoyt.

I'm born from the edges of Herfy's and heartache,

from C. Van's, cirrhoses and China Doll strokes.

No cruising Colby, I'm merely Wetmore and walking,

eyes burning head down holes through the cracks.

His revelry on Hewitt dries to Strand Hotel sickness,

let loose of his feelings into porcelain streams.

I'm the sour-mash scion of a Foster Brooks plumber,

in the shadows of a pulp mill and a hangar and a hate.