Ferry St.

We run after these planes that
Graze the rooftops of Brick houses
On the blue-lined streets of Newark.
New Jersey has no language but
Elbows and hands that gently guide,
Brushing aside annoyance and the
Frustration of shared spaces in a
Foreign land. We come together under
Cloudless skies to sweat and cheer and
Curse into plastic cups of sangria.
There is tradition and there is the tradition
Of amalgamation. Together we burn and
We are stronger in the aftermath.

Author: Erica V.

Always seriously joking and rambunctiously soft-spoken.

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