I’ve driven these streets before,
Many, many times before.
Here and there, without a care,
My city to explore.
Store windows are brightly decorated,
Drawing shoppers, day and night.
My city wants your money,
And for it, the merchants fight.
Here is where life boils,
My city is a caldron hot.
Its nightlife entices without escape,
Calling all to their favorite spot.
The sidewalks are active and full,
A truly eclectic parade.
On every corner, there’s something new,
Along with the fake charade.
Musicians and preachers are here,
Mixed in with the pedestrian crowd.
They all want something from you,
And can be annoying, dangerous, and loud.
The homeless and drugged are here,
In their sidewalk camps and tents.
They litter the street with their garbage,
While shunning what society represents.
Always present is the traffic,
With its fumes polluting the air.
My city has no way of breathing,
When all those gas hogs are there.
Sirens echo down the avenues,
When emergency vehicles scream by.
My city has taken another,
How many others will die?
In my city’s finest restaurants,
The “Suits” and “Carriage Trade” dine.
Here they avoid the “Culture of the Street,”
While they sip their imported wine.
The arts are alive in my city,
With plays taming a shrew.
There’s always something new to find,
Like comic cons and operas, too.
The nightlife continues till dawn,
The drinkers don’t want it to end.
For many, it’s a way of life,
Using alcohol to find a friend.
In the Gay and Lesbian bars,
Many drink to the clock’s last tick.
Then they linger on the sidewalks,
Still hoping for a late-night trick.
My city’s a full-time Brigadoon,
A creature all its own.
My city, this city which I love and hate,
Is Where I Choose to Call Home.
Henry Lansing Woodward
All Rights Reserved