FOUR GEOGRAPHERS FIND THE QUINTESSENTIAL BALTIMORE ROWHOUSE

There were painted screens,
two up, one down,
each  with a quiet country scene
of trees, stream, and deer,
from which to look out
onto the concrete and asphalt.
And formstone, of course

(the polyester of brick, as John Waters put it),

because even fake stone is classier
than the porous brick that sweats and weeps
behind so many Baltimore façades.
A ceramic cat clung motionless

between the two upper windows,

as if uncertain to which screen to leap,
and which deer might make a better meal.
And, there was an old woman

who came out onto her proud marble steps,
imperious in her floral house dress,

and asked “Why are you taking pitchers of my house, hon?

It’s my neighbors who’ve been causing problems.”

COLD NIGHT, MAIN STREET, CAMBRIDGE

Cold night...
Main Street, Cambridge…
As I walk to my hotel after dinner,
a guy about my age, thin jacket, walking toward me—
more than a shuffle, but not much—
whiskeyed eyes, half a cigarette in hand.
Our gazes meet—mutual nods of hello.
Perhaps he sensed that I thought he would speak to me,
so he says “I’m not going to ask you for money,
but, I do want to talk.”

He said he was homeless, and that he’d been hurt.
“I’m on my way to my parents’ house south of Boston—
 it’s okay, I got money for the T—
just need someone to talk to first.
They’re gonna give me a hard time cuz of how I live,
and I’m just gonna have to take it,
cuz I need a place to stay while I get better.
I don’t want to argue and make them mad.
And, then, my mom’s gonna fix
all the foods I ate when I was growin’ up,
but, you know, I can’t eat them cooked that way anymore…
peppers bother me now,
and anything fried,
and when I say something, it’ll only upset her.”
I said “I know what you mean,”
and we talked about getting older,
and the intestinal troubles that hit you after forty,
and how our mothers just want to take care of us,
like when we were boys.
And we go along with it, but only for so long,
and then we feel like the worst goddamned sons in the world.

We shook our heads, saying what can you do?
then shook hands and told each other
we’re lucky to have mothers
who still want to cook for us.

ODE TO U.S. 1, HOWARD COUNTY, MARYLAND

Asphalt and concrete,

rutted, cracked, pot-holed, patched,

curbed and uncurbed,

planned and unplanned,

junkyards, repair shops,

used car dealers, new car dealers,

warehouses, truck stop, rail yard,

gritty bars that open at six when the night shift ends,

gas stations, liquor stores,

shopping centers, restaurants,

motels for travelers passing through,

motels for the suburban poor,

travelers’ cabins whose residents never leave,

trailer parks, apartments,

new homes, old homes,

neighborhoods.

You proclaim your presence

with a cacophony of signs,

disorderly and non-compliant.

You do not celebrate your diversity,

which arose from the dull practicality of life.

You are not sexy like I-95,

fast moving, designed for speed from city to city.

You are not beautiful like the Parkway,

stone bridges and tree-lined;

nor are you efficient like Route 29,

moving the outer suburban elites

to work and play without wasting time.

You are the step-sister—

once first, now least.

You are the old hag,

coughing and wheezing

through diesel fumed days,

from Elkridge to Laurel,

carrying the burdens.

You have no pretense to beauty;

no tree-lined verges;

no manicured medians.

You are rough-edged, ugly, and stained.

Your open spaces are empty lots

and forest tracts waiting to be bulldozed

and opened for business.

Now we are changing you,

like we changed ourselves.

We are making you orderly and neat,

sweeping away the dross,

like we swept it from elsewhere in the county.

The tide of suburban conformity

is rising over you,

parcel by parcel;

redeveloped;

standardized

commodified.

When the transformation is complete—

the removal of the old,

the decrepit,

the unwanted,

the nonconforming—

what will you be?

What will we be?

OCTOBER MORNING ON THE POTOMAC

Sunday morning.

Woke to a chorus of birds;

flickers tapping rhythm on trees.

In the field beyond the woods,

Canada geese honking;

hound dogs yapping in unison.

I take my coffee and books

to the pier to read and write.

Only one boat on the river.

A fish jumps; there’s activity below.

Slight breeze stirs the windsock tails.

Pleasant morning; supposed to get hot later.

Summer’s last gasp—

not yet ready to leave for the season.

New poem at Kumquat Poetry

My poem "Four Geographers Find the Quintessential Baltimore Rowhouse" was published today on Kumquat Poetry's website.  The Kumquat editor described it as "delightful"-- it's a quirky little poem, much like the city in which it's set.  And, it's based on a true story.  Four of us geographers set out on a trek through Baltimore to find the quintessential Baltimore rowhouse.  Well, okay, not quite a trek.  We were four geographers who knew Baltimore very well.  We started our search in Highlandtown, walked maybe two blocks, and quickly found the house that met all the conditions we'd established:  painted screens, formstone, ceramic cat, marble steps.  The old woman in a house dress was an added bonus.    She did complain to us about her neighbors, thinking that we were from the City government sent out to investigate the complaints she'd been lodging.  When we explained we were only four geographers from the University of Maryland, she stopped for just a moment, then continued telling us about all the problems her neighbors were causing.

THOUGHTS WHILE SITTING ALONG THE LOWER POTOMAC

Wind and waves hold power here;

resolute action is tidal.

Fish and crabs know nothing

about the left and right sides of aisles;

partisanship exists only with regard to bait.

Rivers and creeks are the corridors

in which history is made;

measured in bushels, and in the size

of jimmies, rockfish, and blues,

and the ones that got away.

The only monuments here

are stacks of crabpots and

piles of oyster shells;

an old deadrise sunk in a creek.

Marble is reserved for the graves

of watermen when they no longer 
go out in boats at dawn.

There is tranquility here—

found on the river at dawn;

seen as an eagle circles out over the water;

felt when easing a hook out of the mouth

of a fish too small to keep.

We may think all that is important

lies upriver, along grand avenues;

in meeting rooms and marbled halls,

but everything flows in this direction;

the lower pulls down the higher;

the way overcomes from below.