[baltimore]

All I want to do all winter is read poetry.

And talk about the city jail, where I’m ushered into a room with bolted-down tables and fixed chairs, with a crowd of jumpy teenagers. We are locked in. There’s a huge warehouse window in the room; it’s bolted, too. The boiler on the roof below sends steam billowing up. It gets dark but I still see the steam. It’s a freezing night, and the radiator against the wall is hot. The boys ask me if it’s going to snow.