The corner is crooked. I dress bare breasted in front of its window. It faces a sceneless alley but light filters across my bed as if through cheese cloth. I saw a man pissing against the facing fence today. I wonder who was on the other end of his phone call.
The keys of my Grandmother’s typewriter stick like the knuckles of my spine crunching at the base of my neck where the ink starts. Tomorrow I’ll scrape the decades of grime from the letter springs. With the resilience of mint we will bite back together.
I fell in love with Baltimore today as I tiptoed on the edge of her skirt, leaving her in the breath of morning–caught her in a yawn. Each blinking eye spread across an expanse of asphalt skin–that perfect grey complexion at dawn.
Every minute away raked my neck. Borrowed doctors agreed. But my muscles yawned relief as I climbed city walls, scaled row homes and whispered hello to the one-legged man in the wheelchair. I think we’ll be friends–feed him communion. Bread and wine. Eat the blood, drink the body of Baltimore.