Baltimore Harbor

It was perhaps the just-a-passing thought which lingered to fill the syncopating “clic-shoop-zaat” sailboats make when ignored all winter tied to the docks.  Sunrise was revolutions away and the city stayed awake through the sirens of ambulances pretending to rush. But all was still.  All was just the way it was before the passing thought about a distant fjord made Baltimore harbor look like an inlet lost in its fragile promise of open seas to unshaved sailors.

On the balcony, a weathered chair and a steel table. A tall beer mug where two mosquitoes had drowned in the few drops of beer left from last night. Yet, it was still last night since sunrise was hours away. And the beer still sweet for other mosquitoes to drown in. The balcony was outside the apartment even if attached to it.  It was like any attachment, like most relationships. It had a slightly different view of the world than the apartment. Balconies are independent that way. And beer is frothier than sleepy brown eyes offering what had been often offered in other ports. Or on other balconies.

Soon, coffee will fill the air with the greeting of that cycle whose boundaries are curved by the worries of trust and new promises. Sailboats may wait another day for the hope of catching the North winds. And poodles will soon revisit last night’s bushes to mark another sunrise.

And the morning cigarette will change the coffee into a breakfast.

April 24, 2012

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013