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This particular poem has fairly straightforward origins. I have a long-standing argument with a dearly beloved individual about the relative merits of East Coast cities when compared to his Midwest. This was sort of a comment to him, somewhat, perhaps, sardonic.

I was born in Boston, actually, though I moved from Massachusetts as a baby and did not return for more than visits to my myriad relatives until my sojourn at Wellesley College. The Northeast suits me as a place to live, and this city above all others has a place in my heart. I have roots here going back to the 1600's. I have memories of wandering the commuter rail in from Stoughton - my grandparents lived within earshot of the trains - getting confused by Park Street - walking the Freedom Trail with my father and my brother. It has fascinating nooks and crannies to navigate, amusing buildings, history, novelty, it is a wonderful place to live - and live I will, and do. (Did you know that a quarter of the population of Boston is college students?)

The poem was written mostly on the T - I was headed home one night after finishing up a class at Northeastern. The streets were full of fog, and the buildings vanished above, and the entire sensation of walking through the city when it was in that state rendered me completely euphoric.

I wrote a similar piece, in prose, a year ago - when I first went to work in my temp position in Porter Square, and decided that all the world was good so long as I had a hot cup of bad tea. If I find that, I will put it up in these pages.

My City

Do you know your city like I know mine?
Have you breathed its breath when it has swallowed fish
Or dredged up the ocean to lie over its flanks?
Have you marvelled at the way the fog turns
The buildings into clouds
Have you wandered the streets of Chinatown
Or perhaps the North End is more to your liking,
And emit pasta into the street via
The open, inviting doors of glowing restaurants.
Of a subway entrance
Of hell's own chargers on ice steeds
With lances of unexpected wind?
A man plays Mozart in downtown
Violin sweet and tripping in January's rain
Accompanied by the recording of an orchestra.
An Andean piper wails "Scarborough Fair"
Or a steel drummer spits out clear, sweet tones.
A homeless man opens the door
Whether you give him a quarter or not
And bestows blessings upon those who do.
Brick and cobble streets wind,
And the tall ships watch over the harbor
As they have for centuries.
Does your city live as mine does live?

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