I want to write a Pittsburgh poem, but I can't,
not now. Maybe later when I'm far away. Today
I'd just say this is my block, my broken concrete,
my deli, my beggars. This is my bus stop, my teenage
welfare mom, my bit of blue sky breaking through.
And this is my punk coffee wench with her pierced cheek,
my Lenten tuna sandwich, my Korean bakery
rolls stuffed with bean paste, my Forbes Avenue
Hardware Store, my gothic Cathedral --
and that pinball jockey who calls himself Stink, he's mine.

This is my Club Laga, up four flights of stairs to a bar
with Dr. John and bathrooms your mother warned you about.
These are my drug dealers, my local druggies, my students,
my Panther fans. These are my college professors with bookbags
from International Astrophysics conventions and my tulips,
my azaleas, my angels carved in stone.

This is my museum with my Franz Klein, my Albers'
"Homage to the Square," this is my Beehive, my smoke,
my bad skin and broken glass. And hear that?
That's my music seeping out from under blackened doors,
my ancient shoe shop where Mike's been keeping track
of Semple St. since 1929.

I'd say this is my hill topped by my Conservatory leaning
like an X-rayed barn into my cloud bank. This is my town, my glass,
my steel and my bridges over my rivers. These are my churches,
my steeples, my gold-domed tabernacles.
The convents, they belong to someone else, but the rest of it is mine.

-- Deborah Bogen