I sing America from Frankford
Commonly called 'home of the 'trem',
where the buses fly down the street, almost crashing into feral children
Where the scent of not-so-soft delicious pretzels are ubiquitous as it
soars through the streets like an airplane
Where the impudent teenagers scream at night
sounding like an angry choir
Where elderly widows rise gardens out of damaged bushes and dead grass
Tiny un-trimmed lawns are a can of tuna for stray cats
Where row homes cover tiny streets connect everyone
causing too much closeness
Where gum coated pavements are welcome mats to the running feet
running to catch their bus
Where cop cars fly down the streets, providing the next scene for the new Fast and Furious
Where at night, the constant sirens echo in the night sky
piercing through my ears
But in the end, I wouldn't want to be anywhere
but here.
