This city is

red brick and rugged

fine art, portraits and public alleys, 

Whole Foods graffiti and museum dispensaries, 

sardine cars huddled and cooling—

Your feet say, 

Rest, I’ll take it from here. 


This city is

walkways and welcome signs

hung low and dented

by passerby trucks, 

a bumper’s jostle and a joke—

Maybe I’m thin enough to make it through. 


This city is

twenty-seven floors and Gothic arches, 

altar bells and baseball bat cracks

from Red Sox wannabes—

No reservations, but we’ll find you a seat. 


This city: 

catalogs stories 

between the crimson tiles of its make-up; 

records the setting day’s motion

in the oscillations of a porch swing, 

is awed by the way 

histories rub shoulders

after dinner in the evening.