Summerfest on N. Highland: The Streets Become The Block

Lyrics

It's June again.
You can feel it before you see it.
The air gets thick with something other than humidity.
The barricades go up at dawn on North Highland.
A quiet surrender of asphalt.
The coffee cart guy knows the tent crew by name.
They unfurl the canvas, white triangles against the green leaves.
The street holds its breath.
Just for a minute.
And then the beat drops.
A guitar rings out from a flatbed truck.
And this isn't a street anymore.
It's the neighborhood's living room.
The lines on the road disappear under a thousand pairs of feet.
For one day, the streets become the block.
There's a bulldog in a tiny Superman cape.
A potter is turning clay near the fire station.
The smoke from the barbecue pit mixes with the sweet smell of funnel cake.
I buy a lemonade, the ice is already melting.
The bass player on the truck nods to the rhythm, eyes closed.
He's a block away, but right here.
And the beat goes on.
That guitar rings out from the flatbed truck.
This isn't a street anymore.
It's our living room, our backyard, our stage.
The lines on the road disappear under a thousand pairs of feet.
For one day, the streets become the block.
And up there... look.
The porches are their own festivals.
Strings of lights blinking in the afternoon sun.
They're competing for the loudest, the friendliest.
A wave from a stranger on a swing.
A shared laugh over a spilled drink.
This is the part they don't sell tickets for.
The sun dips behind the bungalows.
The last chord hangs in the air, sticky and sweet.
Just the echo remains.
My shoes stick to the pavement.
We walk home on the yellow line, reclaiming it for a few more minutes.
The street is still the block.
Just for tonight.