Tag Archives: Hingham

Requesting The Removal Of The Small But Undoubtedly Uncomfortable Bit Of Timber From An Unmentionable Orifice Belonging To Brian McGrory, Boston Globe Columnist

Sir -

It pains me to think
that something very terrible
happened to you at some point
in this Land of Madras Plaid
and Boat Shoes.

Your rage erupts in epic, pissy splendor
splattering across your screen
and on my morning paper.

Hingham! You can scarce
utter its name without
bringing up bile, heaving
green foamy wobs, inspiring
grievous wracking coughs.

Would I could soothe
this torment, to find a means
of removing the small,
but undoubtedly uncomfortable,
bit of timber from this
delicate place on your person
without compromising myself.

For you see, I am Hingham.
I am its small incandescent
white lights along Main Street
at Christmas, its staunch
refusal to sully its streets
with franchises. I resist
everything but my own diversity.
But I never shop at Talbot’s.

I am the Hingham you cannot
see, for the starry pain
that blinds you to its seamier
side. Remove this stick, Sir!
For in its absence you will see
the dead Dodge Aries K

that sat in our yard much longer
than it should have, the pinched
face of the beady-eyed girl
who called me a “fuckin’ loosah”
roughly once a day, every day,
from 1983 to 1985.

Sadly the stick must needs stay,
for without it you’d have
one less thing
to grouse about.