I follow the cracks in the brick
Between walls of snow
Up the east side
Of the city
Down to the ocean
Staring out into the artificial lights of humanity
Oil rigs at the bottom of the hill
And penis-shaped war monuments
Yellowed ice
Abandoned buildings of once-thriving industries
A sign that reads
‘Map Room’
Above the sign
An artist has graffitied
His name
There are lots of names around here
It’s not pretty
I walk the rails
The ferry station feels empty because it is
The popular old port
Is too cold for anyone to see
And my feet are starting to ache
I make mental notes
Of the real names of the streets
But I’ve already forgotten them
And I stare into the windows of restaurants that I’ll
Never visit
Even the sun is cold now
But it breaks a little smile out of my face


Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.