The night I arrived at Boston,
I rode an evil pillow
and saw myself floating,
impassively,
over Tartan Square.
The rope of my braid,
sharp Rapunzel,
was anchored in the streets
below,
plenty of city pigeons
around me,
gray,
like the worn Atlantic stone
carved out of the city.
Only empty parking lots,
zebra crossings
and red lights blinking below.
A bus called Black Spinel
surfed around gray brick
office buildings.
Then, I read the tea leaves
saved from the harbor,
and I safely concluded
that the secrets of life
were carefully spelled
in the smog covering
the walls
of the ancient city…
like a tattoo.
Paula M. Rodriguez works and lives in Los Angeles with her two dogs. A native from Spain, she holds a PhD in English and enjoys crafting poems that capture fugitive life moments. When she is not reading poetry, you can find her exploring the California coast.