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.





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