The Inner Harbor, Baltimore, January 8 a.m.

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The dimpled water can’t decide

On inscrutable green

Or metallic gray.

 

The sky, a quilt of whites, grays,

Patches of scudding charcoal sewn in,

Sheds a few loose threads of snow

That get entangled in the morning’s hair.

 

Towers, pavilions, boxes at the water’s edge

Proffer their utilitarian beckoning mind,

Cast concrete steeled with logical support

As massive, all pervasive as the raw air.

 

To the east the briefest spy of sun

Caught in a sparkling act of sabotage

teases for a moment, but then is gone

From the windows in solid-citizen stone.

 

Too late , I think poetry, not business…..

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