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On the Cobblestones of Broadway
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2000 It's a muggy Monday night; a blanket of clouds keeps in the heat,
A few cars drive up and down a time-worn downtown street.
Trees sway gently in the breeze, no gale-force winds to fight;
Little else is moving along Broadway tonight.
An old man somehow manages to mar the serenity;
A bottle of Colt 45 in his hand, his words are laced with obscenity.
Hate is on his mind, his heart has much to say,
But his words fall like silent raindrops on the cobblestones of Broadway...
It's Wednesday night now; there are sounds of small talk
Mixed with the twangs of acoustic guitars as they flow onto the sidewalk,
Sounds of laughter and clinking glasses, of happiness and delight;
Good music and good times can be found along Broadway tonight.
An unsigned songstress tunes her guitar outside the Loft,
Her words are from the heart, her voice sweet and soft.
She doesn't care if she sounds good or not: she's happy just to play,
And become part of the night on the cobblestones of Broadway...
Now it's the weekend, when money is flowing like the drinks it will buy,
Bringing a chance to forget the week for every girl and guy.
There are many forms of alcoholic euphoria within sight;
There's much ado about everything along Broadway tonight.
But as Saturday give way to Sunday, a wave of calmness slowly falls;
Not a word of speech nor a note of music echoes from the walls.
Victorian ghosts can still be seen from the rooftops, some say,
As time quickly marches by on the cobblestones of Broadway.
Patrick Hopkins
Summer 2000: rewritten 11/7/2002
