The Long City
I have seen the narrow climesof the long citydraw at mefrom a train,and scrape awaythe wheat fieldsof the Meadowlands,likesnow scatteredto the sides of iron railroad beamson twilight commutes homein January.Did Moses really part the Red Sea?Or was it justsomething I saw on television,but felt echoed in my chestwhen the 5:45from Trentonemergedon the other side of the Hudson,and briefly piercedthe light of a Wednesday afternoon and,though I knew the taxis and subwayswere still running,saw only,through the scratched window,the frozen towers of the crystal city,rising to my leftand to my right,in bricks and silver glass and dirty marble?Our train was heaving,pressing,giving birth to its final stop,steaming and heavy,amid a Promised Landof a Penn Stationwith soot on the floor tilesand discarded, blackened newspapers,and escalatorsthat led up into the sky.They would push us outonto the raw dayand the city air would fill our lungs,and the steel anglesof a jumbling, busy midtownwould collide into usand cut through us deeply.As the sun disappearedover Newarkand the fiery orangeit had forgedtraced through the rooftop water tanksand doorwaysand window sillsin alleywaysof the forgotten western streets,we walked southwardson Sixth Avenue,passingthe snow-silver stonesof the Flatiron Building,findinga brimming Union Squaredrawn wide into our eyes,illuminated stillon a cloudless night.
David Dodman '05