Roosevelt Boulevard roars beside you
a never ending stream of headlights and horns that cut through the quiet evening.
The slowly changing traffic light rounds up cars
like a shepherd keeping order.
A Cardboard sign covers the cracks of the bustling sidewalk,
sharpie seeps through the damp material.
People step on it as they pass,
and a few feet away lies a man asleep with a cup in hand.
In it not a single penny.
Still the next day,
he does it over.
Again and again you rise,
held together by routine and resilience
Wide arms and weathered brick skin organized in rowhouses
standing shoulder to shoulder like workers waiting for the bus,
each one holding their own story.
Holiday lights cling to porches long after the season ends,
soft reminders of traditions that never slip away.
I look at you
your alleys collect trash blown in by the wind,
your dumpsters dirty from years of use,
yet I stare at you hard enough,
and I see a glimpse of a sweet, old woman
standing at the stove for hours,
preparing for her son to bring his young children over,
so she can feed them borscht.
I take a deep breath
My nostrils flood with the sweet essence of baklava
pulling me back to my childhood,
late nights spent with my grandparents,
while my dedicated parents worked long shifts.
They never give up.
No one who you ever meet does.
You carry the world in your arms.
Proud local shops glow beneath buzzing signs
lined up on every corner waiting to introduce new people to their unique cuisine,
a peek into their deep roots.
Different languages overlap here in the Northeast
I know them all through you,
not in words
but in the persistent encounters.
In the middle of all your noise,
you are who we want to gather with,
crowded kitchens, long tables, a warm fire in the center.
Your steady flame always draws us back home.
