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Dedicated for Walt Whitman; to crossing over and connections. |
Walking the Walt Whitman The blades of grass With veins like mine Which flow forever, the end of time Will never come, it flows forever These blades of grass Don’t grow all over They grow to a point Where asphalt meets dirt Where old meets new Where metal and bark no longer embrace in soil But wait, what’s this? A weed grows through the cracks Of the sidewalk, and beauty it certainly does not lack The beginning of a walk from New Jersey to Philly Over the long gray bridge Where birds hang over head from wires connecting One side of a river to another side of us, One side where we start and one side where we finish. I start in New Jersey, and I finish in the city of brotherly love Where taxi cabs take the spots of mini vans to and fro And it’s always people going to and fro. Whether they’re going to work Whether they’re buying groceries Whether they’re picking up a friend from the airport Whether they’re driving by me on the bridge. Where weather and attitudes don’t vary like they say they do Where in reality so many people are similar, Tied to each other through the hustle and bustle Lost between each other in the hustle and bustle Where people see each other but only as an object on its way to work. But as I continue to walk across the bridge I see green after green escaping From the tiresome load that was placed on its back But the roots from a side push through the metal And grow in secret lines and chains to link them all together Where the hustle and bustle of street cars And the men walking over head does not stop them from growing farther over. All this green which started at one time on one side, Now crosses over the obstacles to reach the other. Pushing over to reach each other Every several blocks, of sidewalk cement The green pops up Roots some how running through pure cement. And these little leaves, of plants alone Would never make it, if not for brothers at home Who reach out under trouble, and branch out to their brother As he crosses through all of his trouble. But he is not alone, he passes together With brethren who connect him to another Where mini vans and soccer moms Are always near, but he crosses together To reach the side of taxi cabs and brotherly love. And now that I have reached the end I make a bet with myself. If they dug up this bridge in fifty years time They would find a continuous network of roots, Connecting New Jersey to Philly, From dirt to dirt through it travels through metal. Where one side is naturally connected to the other Where everything there is connected to here. |