I live between Walt Whitman and Ben Franklin.
Bridges between old world, and new.
between keystone and garden,
between river sharks and eagles,
between blight, and revitalization.
They came after the ferries, but before the regional rail.
These bridges that sing summer songs to city souls.
These bridges that bring berries and workers.
These bridges of commerce, and adventure, and lights.
These bridges that breathe life into and out of my home.
One writes the leaves of grass.
The other reaches for lightening.
And I live in between.
Between the times.
Between the states.
Solid running over liquid.
We live between the bridges.