Riding the bus to Manhattan from the airport the weekend before last, I was entranced by all the old type specimens I was seeing out the windows. It inspired me to this poem:
New York City by the Airport
Aged and stately, rusted grandeur:
signs of history’s grinding cogs.
Hunched brick and peeling paint:
A texture as personal as skin
creased by years of expressions —
discolored by sun and ailing health
but the windows can still gleam like
Grandmother’s clever wink.
this metal type unmoving has seen
And these letters show their age,
their wisdom gained
in years of reading, watching change.
Painted signs speak to me from walls
of life’s wisdom down through the years
or teenage loves preserved—
An attic lovingly gathered of
junk and jewels, wedged side by side.
The city goes on tiled, callused feet.
After spending the weekend getting an “eye level” view of the City (rather than the tourist view), I can definitely see why it attracts artists in droves … I still can’t stand more than a weekend there.