May 3rd, 1995, “Black Wednesday.”
The day this city’s heart and soul
was boxed and sold.
The day this city was knocked out cold,
colder than the strongest blizzard.
Defenseless, and torn apart by desert scavengers.
The day when we all became cynical and bitter.
We learned to hate to love these streets,
left in the dark for the sake of progress.
Blue, red and white, faded grey.
Children emptied piggy banks, rallies,
and the ghosts from a funeral long forgotten by many
still lingering around a barren plot of dirt.
Passed down memories that became mythical,
and eight letters that still hide in the back of most minds.
G-O-J-E-T-S-G-O
Winters feel colder, longer, meaner.
Now, a White Out is a severe weather condition
or a bottle of correction fluid used to fix mistakes,
right wrongs, and start over.
Reluctantly, we make due with our current situation.
But a few hardened believers still swear they hear
the roar of Jet engines growing from the south,
looking for a place to land.
