A Postcard from Philadelphia
Emily, the streets here are dressed in burnt amber and broken mirrors
put together by arcane artists like you.
People are quiet, quieter than those back home in the Turner Trace
cul-de-sac. I think you would like it here, Emily
I visited Spruce Street Harbor Park, where iridescent fairies
welcome every outsider, like you and I–
the homes made from different colored bricks and mismatched
windows with cracked skin.
No one really cares here.
Coffee shops play mellifluous music
and the seats hold writers.
You can hear their racing thoughts taking
over their hands and pouring them out
like a glass of large sweet tea back home.
But they don’t have sweet tea here.
Emily, the streets are always filled
with people speed-walking trying to keep
up with the fast heartbeat of the city.
Cars line the sidewalks patiently waiting
to travel to their next unknown destination.
But the further you get away from the congested corners
of bodies waiting to cross the blacktop
you enter shadowed corners with redbrick brunch
restaurants and derelict knick-knack shops.
Street lamps are dead unless you are standing
right beside them; only then can you hear their whisper.
At night the streets are pretty much the same
just louder. Cars drive by and park in the road
until their morning headlights shine
through my window and make shapes on my wall
from shadows of the trees.
Emily, this place is inviting you to come visit, if only you would listen.