The waterproof billboard displayed, 
“the future of music. 
made here.”
Every Saturday, children come and go, 
holding little instruments,
stored in black fabric cases. 
Every Saturday, old vagrants come and stay, 
lugging their tired souls, 
yet kicked out every time by the 
blond and big lady, 
hair tightly put up, 
just as tight as her heart. 
Every Saturday, I watch through the window. 
Immigrant Asian parents following behind
the destined futures of their kids,
Those walking briskly across the street, 
as the signal goes from 25 to 0. 
The college students in this little world, 
the world of Boston’s music, 
unaware they were once these
little and carefree musicians. 
What’s not seen in 
The Panera Next to NEC
is the lost high schooler, not knowing
whether they want to continue this journey
as passion and parent approval tug against each other
What’s not seen
is the little child, 
unknowing of their fate of stress and uncertainty. 
As I finish the same meal I’ve had
for the past twenty Saturdays, 
I leave the Panera next to NEC.