I am made of red brick and cobblestone.
My arms, lifted high to thundering skies,
Are gargoyles and gilded statuary,
Revealing windows to an earlier time.
My hair is the firestorm of autumn trees.
My fingers are tree branches,
dense and twisted by harsh winters.
I am chain link fences and barking dogs.
Clotheslines drape across my shoulders,
Lilacs and morning glory crown my head.
My feet are the crunch of fresh snow and dried leaves.
My legs, are wrought iron, spiral staircases
leading upward into the humid summer night.
I am railroads, above ground and below.
My heart a locomotive, my blood the rhythm of trains.
Under the overpass, through bridge and tunnel, I am connected.
My eye, a searchlight, sweeps the skyline
My canal is made of wine and tears,
I cry my river, and then I drink it.
Take comfort on the mountain of my breast.
I offer you my music, my food, my culture.
Though poor in pocket, I am rich in spirit.
I am made of this place.