A New York Poem

The projected bridges in early New York
 borrowed a page from walk the river tall
so your feet don't slog in the wet,
and ships can traffic underneath.

Thus, ends the isolation of villages
that hungry metropolis incorporate.
It's a long story, believe me.
My name is Adam, my wife is Dawn.

Beside the Brooklyn Bridge,
a subway, buried deep under river silt,
connects the Borough of Manhattan
to the former village of Brooklyn.

Ice Age  provided the terminus.
The first wave of immigrants
crossed the Siberia Alaska. land bridge,
the wandering Hebrews of then,

In the West, Black Feet and Sioux,
In the East, Iroquois and Algonquin.
In Georgia and the Carolinas,
the Cherokee.

On the Atlantic seaboard,
the French gave us a statue of a goddess
to overlook the harbor, torch in hand.
Other immigrants came, are coming still.

We know of those who perished in 9/11.
 It's a long story.  The Bible says we all are cousins,
decedents of Adam and Eve.
The evolutionist date us back even further.

All I know is I live in Weehawken, New Jersey
and it's an expensive commute into Manhattan,
where after dark I play jazz for pennies.
I'm thinking of migrating to Atlanta.

My grandparents were from Poland.
I was born in Michigan.
My wife is Puerto Rican.
She prefers we move to Canada.