My heart lies in Boston,
beneath the too-green grass
of the Common, next to the swan
boats, across from the Charles River.

My brain resides in Boston,
in a high Victorian-style
apartment at the city's
edge, peering over the
Bunker Hill bridge, which lights
up spectacularly at night.

My hands spend their days in Boston,
sifting the dirt in Fenway
Park, polishing the wood
of the bats, feeling the vibrations
when the ball makes a crack
and the crowd stomps the cement.

My feet live in Boston,
journeying by way of the Freedom
Trail, toes curling at the graveyard
in which Paul Revere
is buried, still calling, still calling.