Bell Street: The Artery of Art

Lyrics

Bell Street...
I'm walking you tonight.
The air is still.
Just you and me.
I feel the old ghosts under the soles of my shoes.
That smooth dip in the granite curb...
a perfect spoon-shape where a wagon wheel
from eighteen-ninety-something
rested its heavy iron.
I can almost smell the coal smoke from the yards,
the dust of raw burlap from the loading docks.
Those big freight doors, gaping in the morning fog,
swallowing cotton bales and cold steel beams.
That was your first life. Your working life.
Oh, Bell Street, you're the artery.
You carry the pulse of this place.
It used to beat in iron and steam.
Now it beats in light and quiet space.
The blood just changes through the years.
The heart stays the same.
Then the artists came, with brushes and with dreams.
Second Fridays, a different kind of commerce flows.
Warm, yellow light spills from the old freight doors now,
painting the brick with invitations.
Showing off a canvas, a sculpture born from clay and fire.
The pulse is faster on these nights...
a murmur of wine, and talk, and nervous possibility.
That was your second life. Your waking life.
Oh, Bell Street, you're the artery.
You carry the pulse of this place.
It used to beat in iron and steam.
Now it beats in light and quiet space.
The blood just changes through the years.
The heart stays the same.
And sometimes... you live a third life.
A Tuesday afternoon, and it's raining on command.
A fat black cable snakes across the sidewalk.
A generator hums where a dray horse used to stand.
You wear New York's name for a day, or Panem's.
The iron fire escapes, they watch it all.
Silent witnesses.
They don't say a word.
They've seen every costume you have ever worn.
But now the film crews are gone.
The gallery lights are out.
It's just the quiet again.
Just the brick.
Just your name on the corner sign.
Bell Street.
You hold it all. You let it go.