About this Poem 

"In Pittsburgh, there are 450 ways to escape, the old joke goes, built on the fact of its many bridges. I once lived there with a friend as he struggled to get sober. He's going to kill himself, I thought, and he is going to make me watch."
—James Allen Hall

Pittsburgh

James Allen Hall

I burn your Highland Park. I acid your Carnegie
car dealerships. Your Squirrel Hill, sheer terror
in winter. But most of all, I hate your Liberty Avenue,
the last place, one night, I saw my closest friend
saying, Wait here, outside the after-hours club. I wait,
hating your Strip, half your Shadyside, all of Bloomfield,
the bluffs and flats where my friend trades himself.
I wait hours, then trace your Mexican War
Streets looking for his car, so I could declare a truce
in the battle he was fighting against himself. Your Hot
Metal, your Fort Pitt Bridge that leads headfirst
into the Monongahela. In the morning, he's home.
He cannot tell me where it hurts. I help him shower
off the Duquesne residue, the priesting old world
shame. Pittsburgh, you're all grit and gristle turning crystal
track marks, turning a man meth mouth. I feed him,
put him to bed. I'll keep watch tonight in a cable car
ascending Mt. Washington, your smokestacks
blowing clouds over the confluence until all you are,
Pittsburgh, is a sleepless shimmer I will watch
diminish down to the savaged seed of morning,
as impossible to watch as you are to name.

Copyright © 2013 by James Allen Hall. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on June 19, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Copyright © 2013 by James Allen Hall. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on June 19, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

James Allen Hall

James Allen Hall is the author of Now You’re the Enemy (University of Arkansas Press, 2008).  He teaches at Washington College and lives in Kennedyville, Maryland.

by this poet

poem

Down on Comegys Road, two miles
from the Rifle Club that meets Wednesdays,
summer to fall, firing into a blackness
they call night but I know is a body,
in unpaved Kennedyville, not far
from the Bight, on five acres of green
organic farm, next to the algaed pond
that yields the