My City

Boston, that is. Written in July or August 2005.

The men who wake on doors
tuck empty Starbucks cups into their jeans.
The teenaged boys, gang poets, the stone
limerick of alleyway graffiti
forgiving one more nozzle to paint a blow:
grey Boston gift-wrapped in fog.
Blank swans in green water
hail to the August sun; who says
Massachusetts is cold? The birds
are lifting up their heads
and they are smiling too.

Beribboned pedal-petals
churn the ponds toured
by ducks and grown-ups. Turkish music,
or Greek, but either way there are dark-faced
children wrestling on the grass.
Their mothers have the faces
of immigrants
and the hands of workers
and the breasts of mothers,
who are the same the world over.

Boston, give wake to the men
hunched in the doors, the little
kids in baseball caps, the
sausage vendors (who think of their wives
as people kiss on the benches)—

I hear you and the dawn together
in Fanueil Hall, a long way from the harbor.

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