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Woe to You Corizan!

By Frank S. Palmisano III | Posted 10/11/2000

Towson, you are a strange little oversight, nestled

somewhere along an Indian trail

whose denizens hid in the rustic rubble,

sold you for beads and furs

no quarrels with the explorers except

they leave.

I've just about had it with your

summertime reading groups, your Harry Potters,

your Starbucks coffee.

I'm tired of your fashionable coteries

that stalk the early morning workforce with

fashionably late portions of Mocha Mint

Sumatra, Algerian Bean Bonanza!

Let Sandburg sing his mellifluous hymn to Chicago.

Let Levertov muse on a New York Night.

But mine is a town that launched a thousand socialites

and sent a thousand more into early retirement--

scant sub-tropolis seething under

Baltimore's rippled flesh, itching for revenge.

It occurs to me that I am Towson.

I am talking to myself again.

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