Damon Hubbs

Flag Stop

On the way to the crusades 
I met a boy on a green Vespa. 
I’m doomed to be no one other than myself. 
“It’s Portofino,” he said
and there’s something about the color
that resembles the Christ of the Abyss. 
The last thing Mother wanted before she died 
was a chocolate milkshake. 
It shouldn’t come as a surprise. 
People like milkshakes 

and me… 
I’m as doting as a saint.
I’m in my holy years crusading West Beach.  
I wear a robe of laudanum, 
say goodbye to small mean men. 
The sky is gynecological, 
low and sheer 
and strapped 
with unforgiving clouds. 
Am I leaking 

no, I’m crowned. 
Back slang, bourbon neat 
at the Hale St. Tavern;  
all the yoyos with money
and the prosiness of life,
“You look awful,” they say.  
Beverly Farms with its commuter rail to heaven: 
A flag stop only. I scrounge and serve 
my round blonde head. 
My papers suspect.