1. The Call
The headset hums; the void connects,
A voice from nowhere, dulled by text.
“Press one for help, press two for pain,”
The choices loop—a cursed refrain.
Once, I dreamed of vast, bright halls,
Eldritch whispers in their sprawl.
But here, in Eastie’s narrow lanes,
The echoes call of long-lost names.
2. The Mask
Remote, but not remote enough,
Behind this screen, the air feels rough.
Customer queries, looping scripts,
My soul drips out in frozen drips.
Lovecraft’s stars, I once could trace,
On library pages, through time and space.
Now I chase them through cracked windows,
Between hold music and distant echoes.
3. Werewolves Of Logan
The airport’s howl cuts through the night,
Not wolves, just jets in taking flight.
But I can’t help but dream of teeth,
The primal hunger lying beneath.
In shadows cast by moon and steel,
The werewolves stir; their hunger’s real.
Do they clock in? Do they endure,
The endless grind, the pay unsure?
4. The Art
It feeds me, yet it starves me more,
A brush, a pen, an open door.
Through colors splashed on paper’s edge,
I balance on a fragile ledge.
Beneath the towers, red-brick tight,
East Boston dreams in fading light.
The changes creep, the rents rise high,
But art remains, though markets die.
5. The Pandemic Years
The years collapsed, a timeless haze,
Each Zoom call stretched, unending days.
From windows, watched the skies turn pale,
No fungi here, just viral trails.
And still, we spoke, to faceless voids,
The words like dust, the meaning void.
Yet somewhere deep, an ember burned,
For life’s strange path has always turned.
6. My Father’s Shadow
Dad’s photo rests in dim-lit glow,
His voice, long gone, still seems to know.
Did he see me here, this strange descent,
This labyrinth, this time misspent?
Yet pride, perhaps, in these worn hands,
That hold fast still, though weak they stand.
For though the stars seem dim and cracked,
I’m here, I’m trying, no turning back.
7. Toy Hope
A child's toy left by a yard’s low fence,
A plastic wolf, its grin immense.
And in its gaze, I see the thread,
That links the lost, the living, the dead.
East Boston’s tides rise high and fall,
But still, I answer every call.
For in the grind, the scripts, the gloom,
A spark persists, though faint, it blooms.
8. Gone Nowhere
I walk the streets where shadows writhe,
With werewolves lurking, half-alive.
The stars are strange, the streets more so,
But here I am—I’ll never go.
Gone nowhere, yet I’ve gone so far,
Through pandemics, recessions, the moonlit scar.
And though the grind can strip me bare,
There’s still a light that lingers there.
Would Dad be proud? I cannot say,
But I howl at dusk, and I work by day.
For art and toil, though worlds apart,
Both feed my soul, and mend my heart.
-Lou Toad, 2024
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