(This is for “Tom O”, who prefers poems with rhyme and rhythm.)
THE WURSTHAUS SONNET
As I ghosted through Harvard Square just before dawn,
My old face stretched out by a fracturing yawn,
My thinking was jolted from cravings for toast
For there by the street stood a fat fellow ghost.
A hitchhiking ghost, so I stopped. He got in
And beamed me a totally familiar grin
I couldn’t quite place, though I knew that I knew it.
My memory stirred, and I thought I’d pursue it.
He seemed to know that I needed a nudge.
With a laugh like a shout, he made my brains budge.
As far in the east daylight started to dawn
He asked, “Where’s the Wursthaus? Where has it gone?
Where is the cider and sausage and laughter
And young men who cared not a hoot what came after?”
Opened in 1917, the Wursthaus closed in 1996 to make way for a bank. (sigh).