Immortal Beloved
There is no such thing as Beethoven in Waterbury.
No one sees him buying race forms or cigarettes at Bauby’s corner.
He doesn’t play pin ball at Dazz’s,
chalk a cue at Gentlocks, pan handle a concert crowd at the Palace theatre,
order Blue Ribbon shorts at Backstreet’s or sit in Dresher’s after three sipping cool tall dark drafts.
He’s not protesting the war at Library Park,
selling acid from the Kingsbury hotel,
falling asleep on Christmas eve with a girl named Mary in the chapel of St. Johns church.
Strung out girls don’t get to build snowmen on the green with him
Mattatuck music can’t hire him to move their stock
and the old man at Palace Liquors can’t argue with him any-more.
Hare Krishna’s can’t get him to do their chanting.
Doorways where he stood out of the rain for hours are empty or are gone.
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