And to Think That I Saw it on Mulberry Street

my regards to Dr. Seuss.

In my room there’s a window, where should be a wall

Open onto the street so that I can see all

That is passing by foot or by hoof or by wheels

A fantastic parade of all sorts of mobiles

And spectating there from the bed where I slumber

I’ve started to note all the wonders that lumber

‘Long pot-holey, narrow, and cobblestoned streets

And the list I’ve compiled, while far from complete

Is a taste of the traffic on mulberry street.

A horse is (of course, is) a good place to start

A regular horse with a broken down cart

Filled with branches and leaves

Or with trash or recycling

To take to the dump, if that’s what’s to your liking

Or if you’d prefer not to pay the for the dumping

The man on the cart will oblige you by thumping

The pile of branches, (just now and again)

As he drives by the neighbors’ front doorways and then

With a thump and a bump a small branch will fall off.

“Oh, it’s quite accidental,” he says, if you scoff.

But as soon as he reaches the dump he will see

That there’s nothing more left of his pile of debris

So he’ll go home, dejected, until the next day

When your neighbors will call him and ask, if they pay,

Would he please come and pick up some branches and leaves

That they found on their doorstep on Mulberry Street.

But piles of branches, a-flipping and flopping

And regular horses, a-clipping and clopping

Down Mulberry Street are but only a start.

There’s more to be seen here than broken down carts.

There are bicycles, too, with their tires running flat

From the trash on the streets and the weight on their racks

Cause the rider decided he needed to carry

A 3 meter pipe down the Street of Mulberry.

A bicycle plumber: he’ll fix all your leaks

If he isn’t run over on Mulberry Street.

For buses are bigger than bicycle plumbers

And scary to ride for the city’s newcomers

Who ‘spect they will die when the bus runs a light,

Or have their purse stolen (they’re probably right)

But the driver is cool, collected, contained,

As he talks on his cell phone and counts out your change

And swerves through the traffic on streets with no lanes

And no names and no claims to the concept of sane

But buses, I’m told, are a toler’ble scene

If you don’t try to ride to the futbol arena

They’ll lurch and they’ll launch you right out of your seat

And you’ll land with a thump, safe, on Mulberry Street.

And when all the horses and bikers and buses

And motorbikes, pickups, and big semi-truckses

Get lonely and go out to be where the crowd is

They jam in and try to see who honks the loudest.

Just go out and watch them; you’re in for a treat:

The symphonic arrangement of Mulberry Street.