Philadelphia Sounds Good This Time Of Year

The poem below is from Matthew Green's Controlled Demolition Vol 1. It's a charming ditty about the non-tourist side of the city of brotherly love, posted without the author's permission. If he sues I'll steal his car...

Philadelphia Sounds Good This Time Of Year

Between stiff winter gusts and the
“Hey-you-motha-fucka,”
Philadelphia sounds good this time of year.

Lost my way in the great Northeast.
It’s not high fashion like New York City.
It’s oil drums and church steeples.
It’s not all Billy Penn.

Southwest is the setting sun.
I can almost see it touch the Earth.
East sandy beaches emerge in summer
From dreams of boardwalk and funnel cake.
Northern lights shimmer in the night,
And from my window see domes and needles,
Junkies and drifters living under trestle.

In the diner is warm and dry,
Hot coffee always full and bacon greasy.
Outside is the cold and rain.
Soaking through is the homeless overcoat,
Hypothermic.

Philadelphia certainly sounds good this time of year.

Like a soft truck or rattling motor.
Like a word of friendly from the lady upstairs,
Or a “where you at?”
Like a jet plane skimming space needles of red, white and blue.
Like the song from dirty flute under dripping-wet overpass.
Like the network of cars on the river Vine.
Like the stiff winter gusts and the
“Hey-you-motha-fucka,”
It all blends together in a quiet gray hum,
And it all sounds good this time of year.

From under el tracks emerge shamrocks,
From under shamrocks emerge the sodden and drunk
Who stagger home to wives and children.
While they sleep they dream of warm sandy beaches,
But awake to rusty metal, steam and punchclocks,
Or drywall, mud and tape,
Or motor oil, tranny and axle grease,
And it all sounds good, every day, all year.

The crack of the liberty bell and the clop of
Horse hooves on cobblestone tell no one of how
Good Philadelphia sounds on any given day.

Try not to miss
The silent scurry of cockroach and field mouse,
The pitter-patter of flaking lead paint,
The “phist” of Budweiser cans with dinner,
The “ding” of microwave for macaroni and cheese.

Try not to miss oil drum and
church steeple skyline.
Try not to miss rainbows in puddles.
Try not to miss the
“hey-you-motha-fucka.”
Beneath dripping-wet overpass, It’s not all Billy Penn.