It’s The City, Blue
(To Williamsburg Bridge)
Concert postings and colored stickers on the crossbeams,
black-clad cyclists crossing East River—
I remember when nobody pedaled
past your grim entrance—around 1985,
when Garden Cafeteria had to close
to keep the junkies out.
They even shut you down in ’88,
said you were weak underneath.
I remember when you first opened, in 1903,
old-world masses streaming to Brooklyn for breathing room.
Now Williamsburg has more hipsters than Hasidim—
it’s the city, Blue, keep moving.
Saw Sonny Rollins blow
all night in ’59—
notes jumping like fish, from East River
past the muted moon.
Born in NYC, Jay Franzel, lives in Wayne, ME, recently retired after 33 years teaching at-risk students. He has published poems in numerous journals and anthologies along with two chapbooks and received poetry grants from the Maine Arts Commission and St Botolph’s Club. He has published fiction in Jerry Jazz Musician and remains amazed at the magic of music.