Good morning, everyone. Hope you had a great Memorial Day weekend. As for me and my time DOING NOTHING, I at least managed to write a sestina about Philadelphia, as promised.

For those of you unfamiliar with this savage poetic form, which I tortured myself with as a creative writing major in college, it's a six-stanza poem. The first stanza establishes your end words—the last word of each line. You use the same end words in each line of the next stanza—but in differing order. It's diabolical, but I love the challenge. The final stanza, called an envoi, is three lines that has to use two end words in each line. It's a bitch.

If you don't understand what all that meant, and I can't blame you, look at the last words in the lines. That should explain it.

The end words I chose for a poem about Philadelphia were "eagles," "team," "most," "all," "wings" and "threw," though I used "through" as a variation for the latter, which is permissable.

For the most masterful sestina ever written, see Elizabeth Bishop's simply named "Sestina", which I shouldn't even mention because it's a real poem, and mine is just a lark.

For a crappy yet locally oriented version, see below. Has anyone ever written a sestina about Philly? Maybe not.

Sestina for Philadelphia

Philadelphia is a city of almost-ran sports teams.
We grieve for our Phillies, Sixers, Flyers and Eagles
Who come close to the sun, but have wax wings.
Fans are less than gracious. They once threw
A battery at Santa Claus’ head. Misanthropes, all.
It’s harder if you’re Kobe. We hate him the most.

Philadelphia is a city of 1.5 million people, most
Of them insecure and defensive, like a mini-golf team
Because who plays mini golf, seriously? Everyone’s all
painted green, hoarsely intoning: "Go Eagles,"
And doing the Wing Bowl, where I heard people threw
Up last year, which is gross. No one should eat that many wings.

Still, it’s a thing of beauty, this town. The wings
Of our spirit are broad, or Broad, and most
Of us relish our diversity, and the way fate threw
Us together, a surging, seething municipal team
Rooting for each other to soar like eagles—
All for one, and one for all.

We like it here, between New York and D.C., all
Nestled ’twixt the sea and the mountains. Wings
Of hawks and doves and pigeons and eagles
Are seen above our cars—vehicles used mostly
To travel to the creeks or woods teeming
With wildlife, to see autumn leaves shot through

With gold, copper, red. As a child I threw
Those leaves in the air, spun around, and all
Dizzy, gloried in my city. I had a favorite team,
The Phillies, and when they won, I felt wings
grow on my shoulder blades. I admit, most
Of my youthful memories don’t involve the Eagles,

And for that, I’m sorry. Here the Eagles
Are beloved, and each night we dream we threw
The magic touchdown pass, though most
Of us are doughy and unathletic. BTW, we’re all
Democrats, even those who wear military wings
On their lapels. It’s a blue-state dream team.

Sail on, beautiful Eagles. In Philly we all
See your games through rose-tinted glasses, wings
Dancing in the lenses, most sincerely screaming, "Go team!"