I’ve been so proud of myself for growing up
and shedding this suburban scenery for more subtle forms of snobbery.
I the butterfly, you the broken cocoon. I the artist, you the coloring page.
I’ve proudly colored outside your lines.
But wintery tradition brings me back behind that picket fence
and I’ll whisper that I’m humbled by this homeyness.
I the weary traveler, you the cozy inn. I the prodigal, you the open arms.
This town pulls on my compasses.
On the way to that one coffee shop and who can think of anything else but that
the corner of 17th and Juniper is nothing if not the time I turned around to hear him out and welcome home another brother in the front of that movie-making robot
and that dirty donut shop is nothing if not the place I realized they were gone forever, interpreting the news of a shrinking world with coconut crumbs ignored
and the sidewalk across from Filippi’s is nothing if not the stage of my debut and the meeting of my first embodied inspiration at my entrance to the underworld
and that drive down the boulevard from Sunset to Grand is nothing if not the highway of my heart and the cornerstone of my conscience in every immanent sense.
The truth is that you made my good deeds good.