The streets are never empty, always full, in Philadelphia,
alive with tourists and commuters and boys taking pictures.
The summer air is heavy with the smell of guitar
and strawberry cigarettes. A girl blushes shyly in Chinese
as the light changes from yellow to red with the fireworks
exploding Fourth of July oohing and ahhing on the bridge.

The world reflects on curiosity looking over the bridge-
looking for magic and brotherly love in Philadelphia.
City secrets spill over to the laughing fireworks,
the split-second then now gone, twinkling pictures
in the sky. One street over, a musician apologizes to a Chinese
grandmother as he sets up and tunes his guitar.

A group of girls dance to the fast-paced guitar
floating, flying, crying over the freeway bridge.
In an apartment across town, a man orders Chinese
and thinks about the first time he saw Philadelphia.
A few floors down, an old woman paints pictures
of her nephews and cousins and daughters under fireworks.

It’s the Fourth and the businessman watches the fireworks
from the office building while his son buys a guitar
with the money he made from selling pictures.
Two young lovers make plans to meet on the bridge
near their apartment to watch the sun rise on Philadelphia,
coloring the jump rope class and district Chinese.

Some friends link arms as they enter the Chinese
restaurant and outside, a baby smiles at her first fireworks.
Two blocks up and over, the reporters report on Philadelphia
while a cluster of long-haired punks play air guitar
in the background. Two best friends skip across the bridge,
throwing wishes like diamonds and talking about Hollywood pictures.

Fly over the city; fly over the boy snapping pictures
on his camera. Fly through the streets heady with Chinese
spices. Fly under the crowds of strangers standing on the bridge,
together and connected. Fly through the clouds, through the fireworks
laughing and dying in the night. Fly with the guitar
singing for downtown. Fly in love; fly in Philadelphia.

We wrote songs on our guitars about Philadelphia but you can’t hear them now.
They belong to the pictures of buses and receipts for Chinese food.
They belong to the splendidly sad fireworks we met on the downtown bridge.