I. Drinks after work

Still love my old friend, that trailer-trash boy,
incognito in suit of banker�s-gray,
yuppie camouflage I cannot betray.

He�d rather have a cocktail dress decoy,
me, but not in my frayed jeans of today.
�����I still see him laughing, trailer-trash boy,
�����serious now in tailored banker�s-gray.

My mind is with Harvard Square hoi polloi,
not here with Quincy Market bar clich�,
little black dresses, and power display.
�����I love my friend still, that trailer-trash boy,
�����in spite of the suit, duds in banker�s-gray.
�����The camouflage he needs, I won't betray.

II. Ditching the suit wannabe

"Long day, need some sleep. I gotta go now,"
I say, planning a walk to the Red Line,
a stop at the packie for cheap red wine.

Detour over Mother Goose�s grave, chow
pretzel on the Common, all is so fine.
�����"I'm tired, work was hell. I gotta go now,"
�����I said before this trek to the Red Line.

I emerge as city night�s concubine
and try to absorb the street person tao.
Puffed-up pigeons are the park�s sacred cow.
�����"I'll call you next week. I gotta go now,"
�����I told him. I escape on the Red Line,
�����holding my paper bag of cheap red wine.

III. Becoming a groupie

I want to rock on his hand, my blue jeans
low on hips - to be caught in his wrist pin,
captured by the man with the mandolin.

Courtyard brie and bread at Au Bon Pain, queen�s
move checkmates. Leave to search for Dylan�s twin,
�����to rock with white skin exposed above jeans
�����hugging hips - dream of dark alley wrist pin.

He�s in front of the Coop. Underage teens,
groupies groove the beat. Brown-paper wineskin
to my lips, I think of after-show sin.
�����And I rock on his hand with my blue jeans
�����pushed low. Caught in a dark alley wrist pin,
�����I tongue kiss the man with the mandolin.