On the Waterfront in Canton

Across the harbor's oil-slicked waters,
a mile away from towering blue cranes
and thick-armed men who work them,
lines of homes grow upward from a pier.
Here, affluent lawyers, doctors
will return home from work,
and, with ice cubes tinkling in a glass,
gaze from rooftop gardens
at venerable old tugs with red,
wrinkled skins and car-tire bows
pushing ships a thousand times their size.

Perhaps Poe once stood below, beside
waters slapping black against the banks,
and stared south beyond
where cranes now lift their burdens.
Did that church steeple loom back then?
How about those sagging row homes,
with flat roofs reflecting sky
in mirror-smooth puddles after the storm?

He was here, I'm sure of it, long before
a hundred yachts bobbed in slips,
creaking, tugging at their moorings.
From here, he stared through a blur of tears
for his lost Lenore, an imploded heart
still beating.

I see no ravens here, nor crows,
as must have hovered above and cawed,
taunting him to capture
black wings, heads, onyx eyes
nesting dark in his heart.

Today, beyond the buzz of saws and clack
of hammers, only swallows swoop and dart,
twittering as quickly as their sickle
wings change pitch and camber.
Few appreciate their aerobatic grace,
as cars rush past, down Boston Street,
drivers racing to make it through
the next intersection glowing yellow.

Scott Speck
07/04/2003