This is a poem I wrote more than ten years ago about Rochester when Bill Johnson was mayor and Bob Wegman was still alive. I think it’s still relevant today.          

 

Seasoning Rochester

 

The hill where the sun hides

blushes lilac with the first scent of spring.

On the east side, life sashays outdoors to Park Avenue cafes

While Joseph Avenue barbecues

Jumpstart

to a different beat.

Pops from red winged batters streakpastMercury

on their way out of the city.

 

In summer it’s a fair day

and we ring around the ponies

while the sea breezes carry us to yesterday.

White hotdoggers cruise down Lake Avenue to

throw back Gennys.

But our custards drip worries of job loss from melting careers.

We lick faster and faster to catch them up.

 

Come September, colleges rule.

We read books with yellow jackets

and develop prints of learning.

George’s city now belongs to Gap and Garth and Golisano.

(not to mention Bill and Maggie, and Dan and Bob)

But philanthropy still underscores our collective music here.

 

The winter has its lake effect,

and the change winds ferry fast across our great lake.

It’s time to contact the world through a fresh lens,

pend a patent on a new Spirit of Ontario.

Reinvent an upside down, turned around,

North Star of a hometown,

 

Flower of the Genesee.