This city is full of steel girders and rusty concrete. Cigarette butts confetti the sidewalks like pepperoni on a hand-tossed pizza. Pittsburgh has more bridges than skyscrapers, more high school sweethearts than nightlife singles, more beer than wine.

The city has history, but it has life, too. It lives between the cracks in the sidewalks, in the shadows of the slumbering mills, in red necks beneath blue collars, in the rivers, in the gardens, in the coffee shops. It's all here, and it's beautiful.

I drive on the highway at night. I turn the radio off and roll the windows down and put the cigarettes away. The wind whips into the car and scatters the pages of books on the back seat. It's better than any music I could pick. It's the sound of the city breathing.

I live among retirees and volunteer fire fighters. I own a house in the suburbs. It's small but warm and the fridge is always full. It has my style all over it, a schizophrenic scatter of Ikea and hand-me-downs, clean lines and round corners, white particle board and ancient wood. It's my bolt hole. I sleep to the lullaby of train whistles and the dirges of barges.   Send me a message!

Profession: Writer
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