The Harbor has seen dusty ages,
back before the glittery,
glassy towers rising in their
multitudes.
Back when Bromo-Seltzer
was a real thing, when the clock
had a real existence in time.
The new towers dance lightly on the waters,
unmindful of their layers,
heavy with sediment, yet dancing feather light.
Like algae, age floats just beneath the surface.
There were steamboats, once,
sidewheelers, the Old Bay Line
tied up along Light Street.
There were smells --
oh, there were smells! --
and the harbor reeked with soap and spices and the Marsh Market's fish.
And everywhere was that awful cannery rot, which gurgled
up through town
and peeled the paint off ships.
Now kids roll in the harbor
and the long sheds
are only hiding brass-railed neon.
Pizza, running fountains, cinnabons:
the latest layer awaiting
future songs, are caught alive
in little magic boxes
held by tourists comfortable
in this place so like a hundred other places.
The tourists smile. In seeing
nothing, they say all:
"So this is Baltimore!"