One and Three-Tenths Miles
The blue bridge strolls are mostly
In seeing where I am
At each point in this trip. They always start in Brooklyn
Where I am not from,
Where I am only kin.
Where I embark, the bridge is not yet blue.
It is pale stone, bleached by the sun and
Quarried from a faraway hole. Its steps
A beginning, leading to a rise and
A moment when
Blue paint on
Becomes a theme.
The stroller leaves the land behind
The rise. The river calls itself
To the harbor and we call it
East. The bridge across the way is called
Brooklyn and this
Manhattan as if to praise
Each parent with its own
Subway cars rattle alongside and autos
And trucks roll above my head
And the peak is breached, while boats and barges
Cross beneath my feet. Everything is moving,
Moving faster than I. And then I am
Moving faster as the path runs downward.
Below awaits the colonnade and
Canal Street, the western border of China,
Where I am not from.
To the north stands Little Italy, where
I am from only
But I am not yet home, no matter what I call home.
I am padding down blacktop, a
Pale stone tumbling, bleached by the sun and
Quarried from a faraway hole. I am
From there, but I am
Not there. I am suspended above
The world, held aloft the length of
One and three-tenths miles by
One hundred years of
Blue Nickel Steel.