Good morning, Baltimore

Learning to Be More

This bratty city-rat did not go gently in –
I scrunched my nose aloft to face Fed Hill
and resolutely airborne it has been
for fourmative (alleged) years. The thrill
of Honeyed tones escaped my harsher ear;
I missed the apple’s bite. Professors spoke
in paper verse, so reedy as cohered
to nicknames lent by Charming small-town folks
(as far as I’m concerned, a joke – I can’t
believe that Bawlmerese facilitates
a literary aptitude). The chant
of “Fuck tha Poe-lice” debilitates
a scholar’s ear – I scowl into my book,
look up to see a natty boy who winks
a roguish eye my way. His protest looks
like Mobtown fun, in fact. Can’t help but blink
back at the pUtz. “What have we here,” he asks,
“a snooty type?” “The small-town jam just ain’t
my thing, I guess.” He quietly tsk-tasks,
informs me that it isn’t quite as quaint
as I’ve implied. “I’ll show you, kid,” he drawls.
We tumble down the Avenue, as rows
of multicolored homes approach St Paul.
“I know this joint,” I say. He grins. “I s’pose
you’d show Lord Baltimore himself a grand
ol’ time?” I tell him I hate crabs and guys
who’ve been around, to which he sweeps a hand:
“Too much of a good thing can make time fly.”
“You’re mixing adages,” I say. “But why
be less, you know?” he says. I acquiesce.
He drives me to the Ottobar. I buy
us New York hipster beers. He’s not impressed.
“They brew that on South Charles. Besides, it tastes
like piss.” He’s right. We dance to Scottie B
til three a.m. I let him touch my waist.
Now back at school, I sit at Dunning Tree,
pontificate poetically on hills
and beers and crabs, Examining the Sun
which climbs in neon pinks and greens. It fills
the scraping sky to mark a day begun.