This is a tiny homage to my neighborhood, Jackson Heights.

This song and the others I’ve posted so far were written during a song-writing exercise: to write 14 songs in 28 days. This was fun.

Taco stands lined up under the belly of the 7 train.
Colombian women filling tight blue jeans don’t look like your magazines.
In Little India, the women in the saris will never speak your name.
37th is a walk in heaven if you’ll let it be.

Oh, Jackson Heights,
I keep coming back to you,
your alien point of view.

Oh, Jackson Heights,
what am I gonna do
on Roosevelt Avenue?

Men praying for work to pick them up
on the crossroads of 74th.
The Scorpion produces drunks who’ve had enough,
but they are the honest sort.
The gay men crowd as the sparks of the 7
rain down on the dirty street.
And tucked away in the co-op part of town,
young families drifting to sleep.

Oh, Jackson Heights,
what am I gonna do
on Roosevelt Avenue?

Oh, Jackson Heights,
I keep coming back to you,
your alien point of view.

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