From the sky the streets of Boston lay out like wagon wheels and cross-hatching. From underground the city looks the same as other cities with clogged arteries and transit tubes. (But this is not a Boston poem, nor is it a Boston poem disguised as not a Boston poem.) I've walked the 1 from Newbury Street to Harvard Yard, and the 66 from Porter Square to Coolidge Corner. Most days were bento box lunches on Boylston, Japanese game shows, and the refraction of cars streaking electric across the Pru. But this is not a Boston poem. If this were a Boston poem, I would have to talk about the Red Sox and the North End, First Night and lobstah. If this were a Boston poem, I would tell of Patriots' Day and Heartbreak Hill (I saw Will Ferrell there once-- he running the Marathon, me picnicking on a grassy knoll.) and the crowds that line the route like beneficent parade-goers. But I'm not ready to talk about that yet.