My kinship lies
Not with the shining valleys nor yet the mountain ranges
Where man, heroic, stands alone
The world before him in glory
Mine are the beaten hills
Rough as the boxer’s crown.
Take away your gleaming cities of neon
Stainless steel in the sun;
For mine are the cities
Fallen from their strength
Children of iron, black as coal on the snow
In my cities, living still,
Are the descendants of
That fighting Irish Italian breed
Crossed with the Yankee farmer.
Murphy’s Bar, Vinnie’s Pizza
Haunted by Ethan Frome
Who on his good days turns into Robert Frost
But no apologies.
Mine the farms where the fields have vanished
Ghosts of a dream betrayed by the dreamer
The white church on the hill
The weathered farm, ox and ass
The red mill by the river
And all fallen to the ruin
But enduring still.