He’s at attention, musket raised to

an oncoming train.

A ghost story dwells in steel

caverns below

Boston Common. A man in a red coat

vibrant enough to stunt

breaks. A conductor stares into

the whites of the soldier’s eyes

on the six a.m. commute. Two men.

A Patriot and

a British soldier,

standing guard of the mass melded

grave of

a thousand fallen clones.

The patriot drives

Bostonians through underground

oxygen—stiff.

They inhale these

dusted souls as

wheels screech between

Boylston and Arlington.

A reminder:

history is still as

tangible as

a blood red coat.