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I am dark water, November rain, statues of poets long-dead and longer forgotten. I am red and white towers, green and black mussels swimming in saffron. I'm Saturday afternoon happy hour lobster, $4 for 6 inches. I'm the slow roll of dockside walkway. I am men that smell of brine and their cracked hands and chapped lips. I'm hand-painted storefront, chipped and peeling each winter, re-coated and blister bright in May. I'm haunted brownstones, brick and board barrooms; glass-front, corner cafes where the squash soup was made this morning and the coffee is fresh because it never stops pouring. I'm fog and spray and lighthouses that keep ghosts and look for survivors. I'm the literature of Longfellow and the cry of a foghorn, long & low. I'm blue-collar, white-washed and live on salt water taffy and the meat of the sea drenched in butter.
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