I grew up where clouds hung thick with pollution
and the skyline of the insomniacs’ city
was never far out of my sight.
Those buildings were my stars
and I could never hope to count them
as there were twice as many,
the city shined for a second time
on the stillness of the river.

The stars in the sky are bright on cloudless nights
and the flowers are expertly arranged,
always in bloom and never wilting.
Nights are quiet except for the train
that sometimes rolls through town,
rumbling an apology for disturbing the noiselessness.
It’s warm all the way through to December
and Spring arrives without giving Winter a chance.

The sights and smells and people
are nothing like where I’m from.
The yes ma’ams and no sirs are a foreign language
and I am fluent in lack of patience and flipping people off.

I don’t know how to slow down
to the pace of the South.
I don’t know what to do
so far from home and what’s familiar.

The miles that exist between
here and where I spent eighteen years
can seem endless sometimes.
I spent so much of my life
mapping and discovering,
on Summer days at the shore
and Winter nights walking quickly
to escape the cold and the shadows.

Most would find the stars a welcome relief
and, to them, the eerie quiet would be a nice change.
They would see the green spaces
and the streets that are safe after dark
as an improvement.

I find comfort in streetlights and skyscrapers
even though they cover nearly every star
on the clearest of nights.
I don’t mind the backdrop of run-down buildings
with their broken windows and graffiti
that is crude in style and subject.

I can’t deny the beauty of where I am,
can’t pretend there isn’t some appeal
in the new found peace I have here.
Despite all of that, I know I will go back
to the smog and the sirens of my city.