Battery Park
A Poem by Brigid Cooley
You can tell a true New Yorker by the tread on their boots and the way they walk fearlessly in front of cars when crossing the street.
This city breathes with you.
I'd even venture to say that it has dreams of its own.
The people here speak a language comprised of coffee orders and the names of subway stations.
Walking down Wall Street, it smells like bagels and money, with a hint of curry wafting over from the food carts parked on the busy streets.
Some skyscrapers go on forever.
Most taxi drivers honk their horns too often.
Some of the subway cars have poems written on the walls, and some of the parks look like they're straight out of European storybooks.
Crosswalks become community centers; metro cards are the common denominators in a kaleidoscope of people.
This is where you realize just how big the world is.
This is where the world starts to make you feel claustrophobic.
Everyone remembers their first time in the city.
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