in Philadelphia

they sit in Philadelphia and read
about the great universe
pulsing and throbbing with
sexually charged politics and
art and war and love, and
a cell phone chimes, someone
answers, and the Ben Franklin
bridge spans the Delaware,
and wet hulled boats like hungry
lips on a baby's mouth move
up and down that river with the
rhythm of an ocean tide.
they sit in Philadelphia and talk
about the great universe
beyond Rittenhouse Square
and the wide steps of their Rocky
art museum, and the skinny boats
slicing on the Schuylkill, and the skinny oars,
and grasping hands of the scull crew,
pulling evolution toward the finish line
for another campus victory,
and their private parties,
jazzed and blued, amped and camped,
where their private parts are kept,
polished and pampered,
sipping their thoughts on
foams of Pennsylvania beer
without distress or appearing dumb,
tasting wine any local grape could have died for,
and determined to be a local sports fan
instead of an interminably dull blade,
and beyond the Inquirer, too,
and then it was winter, and a snow
emergency closed most roads,
so they sit in Philadelphia,
waiting for spring.