Stories

I wander a street,

Admiring the buildings to either side.

A diverse collection of history

In two-by-fours and I-beams.

In the distance, skyscrapers sharp as the suits its tenants wear

Brush blunt edges against low-hanging clouds.

They remind me of stories--

The best ones,

The type made of metal,

And wood that gives you splinters.

A bustle of activity,

Historic and strong;

Unyielding.

Able to support themselves

Throughout years of tests,

From scholars to weathering.

Down an alley and to the left

Lie the streets long forgotten by city maintenance.

Spray-painted brick and

Boarded up windows,

Like books fashioned

From animal hides and lamb's wool.

They might as well be huts and lean-toos,

More history lessons than historic structures.

Some, like myself,

Find these buildings have a strange beauty,

But the stories akin to their structure

Are anything but.

Straight ahead

Lie the stories in-between.

New businesses and restaurants,

Innovation and hope,

Stone and Kevlar,

Cotton woven with ripcord.

Too new to be historic yet—

Just trying to survive.

Some may crumble into the marked-up pages

Of a ten-year-old social studies book,

But some may hold hands with the clouds

And link elbows with the sun.