One and Three-Tenths Miles

The blue bridge strolls are mostly

An exercise

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

Nickel Steel

Becomes a theme.

The stroller leaves the land behind

Halfway up

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

Namesake.

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

Through legend.

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.