This City is old, wrapped in the skin of a maiden whose time is past. Abandoned by her ghosts – fled to the countryside where graves are tended and people remember. The buildings speak, no one listens anymore. The mortar has memory and stays true. The stones have integrity, stand up until young men come to build new truths and grind the stone to dust. They are young men with purpose, searching for the promise of hope fulfilled and the end of age. The old men age with wine. No longer hungry, they have learned to be full on the only bread worth eating. Work holds them firmly in tow, at anchor in the harbor, content to miss the Sea. The women are full of grace, except the young and beautiful, they are full of lust for the dance and men to hold their hands, hands that will cradle dreams keeping them alive in times of drought. The women of grace stand in doorways, lean from windows, hang washing, pasta and dreams. The children are lost. Lost to American dreams. Lost to music, names, the promise of hope fulfilled, the end of age. America – where nothing is old, there is no memory, everyone has purpose, grace, bread, wine, and truth is green water flowing from the rock of Moses. Around the City water recedes. Exposing barren mudflats where even the clams refuse to dig. And when the wind shifts instead of salt air what it carries is sand. The young men age while they sleep. Women become keepers of dreams. Old men disappear into the Sea. Children fly west to purpose, hope, truth, bearing the torch they so eagerly lit. The City will sleep. Lie dormant with shallow breath until Her ghosts return, She sheds Her skin, is once more the Maiden of old.