Emily Kirchner

Four years ago, I had a date with Bridgeport
and fell into a train tunnel of love,
An infatuation with the revelation
of this metro oasis behind the station.

Before I came here,
I believed out-of-towners who said Bridgeport is like
a talk show guzzling mom in a Trump hat
who assumes a man is gay if he’s a vegetarian
or if he’s never seen Scarface.
I believed them when they said Bridgeport is like
that guy who drinks one beer,
then spends the next twenty minutes bragging about how wasted he is
And whines about “the friend zone,”
when he only wants to be friends with Instagram models.

Then I moved, and was moved.

This city is bursting ripe with beauty bombs
Consecrated by streetlight halos.
Abandoned factories tattooed with spray paint
are the ghosts of industries’ injuries
But they’re still industrious
Pumping rivers of art from the current of events.
These brick altars are cradled by vines, the earth’s veins
Reclaimed.

Bridgeport has bodegas with empanadas that could cure cancer.
It has multi-purpose buildings like a cat trying to fit nine lives into one:
The quinceanera shop
that’s also a wedding boutique
that’s also a clothing store specializing in sequined vests
that’s also a public notary
that’s run by a lawyer.
It is the Optimus Prime of buildings.

There are bed races
Where crowds compete, rolling wheeled beds down the street,
Chasing their dreams.

There are the beautiful but antisocial mansions
of St. Mary’s by the Sea,
Their nudity concealed by leagues of ivy.

We don’t want gentrification,
Or patronizing pontification
Because this city grew from creative dynamite seeds
Sown and double-stitched,
bursting from the sidewalk.

And, of course, there’s Poetz Realm
Where we tango with entangled thoughts
and snack on rhymes,
Plugging into each other’s currents
to power empowerment.
This place is a parking meter for a poetic meter
Where we can rehearse
and each room is a verse
in this poem we call home:
Our town.