The Hasidic Girl and Forty-Second Street

A Hasid stands at the crossroads, clad
In a huge fur hat, next to him, a lass so glad.
A curly-haired teen who twirls her head,
As around them, Forty-Second Street is spread.

Neon lights, ads, and voices blend,
The crowd's hum never seems to end.
Buildings loom, the skies obscure,
The urban jungle, alive and pure.

African Americans dance with zest,
In vests and kippahs, tzitzit dressed.
Youths in orange, with heads bowed low,
Pass under bells that softly toll.

Japanese with cameras speak in flows,
Capturing moments, as their excitement grows.
Mongols in yellow hats stride near,
While Madame Tussauds looms in the rear.

Ohio girls, in clothes too tight,
Laugh as they bask in the city's light.
Georgian ladies converse in Russian, refined,
Amidst the city's ceaseless grind.

The Hasidic girl's eyes sparkle with glee,
"Ah, Aba, what is all this we see?"
"It's nothing, my daughter, just the world in sway,
Just another bustling New York day."