I’ve recently started going through my old poetry. This one is circa 2004, an ode to my hometown, edited this week. Perhaps it’s better to let old poetry die.
Sometimes I believe
that nights like this -
in the kitchen, windows down,
the smell of heat cooling in the air,
bodies affected by humidity-
on past my childhood.
But I know, as I pack up – move out and on -
That someday I may think I
smell it, see it
in the corner of an attic somewhere
or a small gas station on my way to somewhere big-
but it won’t be there.
It’s only here-
I am only here