Westwood Lodge, 1980–1990
By Sarah Hanna
And then again, you go west, to that perennial
Resort at the end of the bending street, row of pines,
Where Sexton strolled through noon, made mocassins,
And danced in a circle: the Summer Hotel.
Why every tumid season, cicadas burning blue,
Beetles mounting one another, chewing all the flowers,
Do your pupils pinpoint, your breath sours?
I call the police, who’ve nothing else to do
(“Safest city in America” or so our town’s ordained);
They arrive in flashing squadrons: at least eleven
Armed, sturdy men, five cars, for one uneven,
