by Edgar Allan Poe’s house
stands in Baltimore
although my family’s brothel
was razed.
Likewise, Cousin Charlotte’s
bootlegger business.
Pay a quarter to see
a blind pig
get a shot of whisky for free.
On a table-sized map
in the city’s archives,
a Maryland historian points
his manicured finger, indicating
to my mother and me, where our family’s
buildings used to be.
She grabs my hand.
The family slum has become
a football stadium.
The Ravens play a mile
from the poet’s grave.
Mascots Edgar, Allan,
and Poe raise
the crowds
but it’s his headstone bought
with schoolchildren’s pennies
that catches sun.
