I miss my home. Bodegas crammed in next
to home improvement shops and dollar stores,
the barely legal street carts filed with fresh
cuisine from all around the world, the doors
that never match their neighbor, banging from
the yard next door where John said he could mend
whatever broke this week...I miss my home.
I miss the clatter-screech of Brooklyn trains
that carry tired families back to Queens
when Coney Island play is done. Explain
to me how New York City has the means
to seep into my soul and change my brain.
My nomad birth and gypsy life make me
unlike-just like-the rest of my city.
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