Stretched tight, like a belt
across the North Shore waistline.
A double-verse of city and town,
where factory shells and mill hollows
whisper industrial secrets
to blacked-out storefront windows.
A stimulating multi-ethnic maze,
where Monroe Street
feels like Boston’s Latin Quarter,
while pubs on Broad
have the Irish taste of Southie.
A raw jewel flaunting its gritty allure,
where the promenade on Lynn Shore Drive
points its green and sandy finger
into the Atlantic’s indigo abyss,
where what seems constant
are the saints and a stranger’s front porch,
offering up itself as a peeling front row seat
to watch one’s life transfix in stasis
or set sail to a sanguine horizon.