Notes From The Overground

I wonder how Baltimore is
when asked by VISA or MasterCard
if I’ve ever lived in Baltimore.

I have never lived in Baltimore.

I would think that the barrels of live crabs
stack claws & tentacles vibrating with
that little red chatter like teeth.

I would think Inner Harbor shines urban bedazzled
with storefront come-ons & museums that house
the worlds’ kept but battered treasures.

I would think there are stories of fisherman who
came in from a stormy night & were given salves
made of beeswax & talc for sore knees.

I have never lived in Baltimore.

I could imagine it has red-brick row homes
with porch steps & front doors with
tiny stained glass windows so no one can see in.

I could imagine the local market
doesn’t have saladitos (salted plums)
or free apples for your grandmother.

I could imagine that on sunny days
women tan with aluminum foil reflectors
& kids bang off the fire hydrant bolt.

I have never lived in Baltimore.

I should assume it doesn’t have
the massive fortissimo sunsets of Santa Monica
& beaches that disappear into the vanishing point.

I should assume it doesn’t have
a 100 year old library that perished in the great fire
leaving only a holy-luminescent arch.

I should assume it doesn’t have
Sunday afternoon barbecues of carne asada,
roasted coffee & one-eye blind dogs.

I have never lived in Baltimore.

In Philadelphia the pizza was bigger
than three of my heads, cheesesteaks seethed provolone
& I kissed a girl with my tongue for the number one.

In Los Angeles I forgot about your
address & phone number marked “past” in
my directory but privy to hang-up calls, your breathing.

In Seattle I learned how to go uphill & downhill
through snow tracks, cook dinner on gas by candlelight
& what becoming like the person you’re holding on to is.

I never lived in Baltimore.
© Adam Bresson

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