THE TIME CAPSULE. Norman Smith D.

      A New York Summer

      New York City.

      When spring yields its way to the summer,

      The Big Apple now begins to bake

      With the sweltering heat of the concrete jungle;

      Where the hunter and the prey

      Intermingled night and day;

      In the city that never sleeps.

      New York City.

      The Liberty City they called it,

      When the scorching summer comes around

      And the water hydrants are flowing

      To cool the concrete jungle;

      Where the streets become a paradise

      With children swarming the fire hydrants

      Like fawns in a desert oasis.

      New York City.

      In the summer, when some of the hydrants

      Are sprinkling like lawn sprinklers

      While others are rushing, like miniature rapids

      To cool the temperature,

      Of the sweltering concrete jungle;

      Where the public pools are few and far apart

      And often so crowded it seems impossible to get in.

      New York City.

      When passing sports cars,

      With their convertible tops down,

      Make a turn, or backup to avoid a disaster,

      While others roll their windows up

      And stop under the waterfall for a quick wash,

      Or a chance to cool off, at the manmade temporary oasis.

      New York City.

      When the apartments are like hot ovens

      And the electricity surges off and on;

      With barbecue grills on the balconies and sidewalks,

      Are a common display, and the children play fight

      With water balloons or water guns;

      Girls skipping double Dutch

      And the double-decker buses are crammed with tourists

      And fleets of Circle Liners parade our harbor

      And cruise the Hudson River.

      New York City.

      In the summer, when the melting pot is at its very best,

      And each park represents a village

      A mosaic, depicting out of many one?

      With the smell of barbecue sauce,

      Jerk seasoning, curry, and various herbal composites

      Perfuming the air.

      With puffs of smoke curl and climb upward

      Resembling an Indian or African village of our not-so-distant past;

      The aroma of different cultural fragrances

      Represents their ethnicity

      Tantalizes the nostrils, soon to soothe the palate.

      The Big Apple, New York City, the melting pot of the USA

      As the summer heat intensifies,

      Making its mark on the season,

      The melting pot upstages the world,

      Exhibiting our many cultures;

      A multicolor mosaic showing humanity at its best,

      Parading with music dancing and fashion.

      The Saint Patrick’s Day parade, the old granddad of them all,

      With its deeply rooted Irish heritage,

      A trademark green and plaid

      Along with its unique sound of the bagpipe and fiddle;

      A splendid treat to behold, at summer in New York.

      The West Indian parade,

      With its peacock-like colorful designs

      And chanting dances of their ancestral home;

      With the captivating rhythm of the reggae beat,

      And its awesome drum and base;

      Or the settled steel drum that mimics the piano

      Contributing to the splendor of New York summer.

      The upbeat of the hot Latino Salsa dance and music;

      The Dominican and the Puerto Rican parades,

      Their vibrant rainbow of color and fast high-pitched music

      Composed with tweeters, shakers, and Congo drums;

      Their eye-catching fashion

      Combined with other Latinos of New York.

      Their contributions are immense.

      New York summer, a fun place to be.

      In our harbor stands our Queen,

      The goddess of Liberty.