HOMETOWN

If your home town
is also your first lesson in love,
then it will not surprise you to learn that I am an expert in longing.
I know I am never the only lover,
that there is a good chance my name
won't ring a bell if you ask of me tomorrow.
I know every ode I attempt has been written before,
that where I belong
does not belong to me.
Let me confess that it is true:
I am always dizzy
with motion,
that sleep is that good drug I read about
in a doctor's office
but have never tried.
And yes, my traffic
is constant.
And yes, I am addicted
to flux, desperate for the high of discovery,
scared to be caught wearing
the same corner store twice.
We inherit the vices of
those who infatuate us.
So I too have
the habit of blushing
and spinning before tourists
that whisper, will you look at that?
Can you blame me?
Sometimes litter feels less like trash
when a foreigner wants to photograph it.
I can tell who is trying to capture me.
I know who is looking for a souvenir
with which they can return
to a safe town,
boasting of the time they braved
my dangers, confident they
understand my strangeness now.
I let them. It makes the loneliness rattle
a little less loudly,
even if it doesn't stick.
Besides. The ones who can forgive
the bitter Februaries and
summer's relentless crowding,
the ones who do not flinch at
the cockroach's scuttle
across the subway tracks at dawn,
are the ones who do not need to be told
that there are as many corners
of quiet as there are of honking,
that it is possible to be
both home
and still unknown,
to turn a familiar corner
and gasp,
I have lived here my whole life,
but I have never seen this before.