Our men crack Bohs,
trade tales slurring
to a pause; days spent
crawling over coal and salt hills
like Sisyphus.
If these had been
Carl Sandburg’s men,
their backs would be bronzed and
their spines made
elegant like Chicago corn.
But this is Baltimore.
Our bones are the Bay’s
murmurs; those
armed with intentions
are weak by pavement,
Oh Carl,
such danger here –
that hopelessness, even
doors stay off their hinges
too sore to do their work.
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