Euclid in the rain

I walk Euclid in the sun,
on a Sunday.

It holds on stubbornly,
this street, this bricked line
of what was caterers
to the families of Westminster,
Maryland, McPherson, Taylor,
the grand private places
of Portland, Westmoreland,
palaces of marbled stone,
monuments to hardware,
insurance and banks,
railroads and manufacturing,
meet me in St. Louie, Louie,
Judy Garland did right here
and Lauren Bacall orders
Bissingers chocolates. 

I walk Euclid in the rain,
on a Sunday,
smelling washed trees,
bathed concrete street,
lathered sidewalks.
It still owns its sense of self.

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About stlouisisapoem

We live in this poem called St. Louis, a poem we're still writing. It's about history, and art, and politics, and business, buildings and streets, rich and poor, and food (of course), and all of the other things that make this city what it is and what it will become. We publish poems about St. Louis, and you're invited to contribute via the comments to posts (for now, until we get our communications organized). Send us a link or an email address, and we'll respond. Help us write the poem that is St. Louis.
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