home.

This is my home,

these collection of streets

running into lines

into puzzles

into connect the dots

of places I’ve been and

places I’m going to go.

I ride my bike there and it’s a cold spring night and

I have my headlights on to show me the way and

I think to myself “I’ve been right past here

I never knew this was here

this place looks great.”

The seats are warm and welcoming and the people are

lined with one-beer-queer,

a slightly quivering outline of themselves

brought to you by that

double IPA

that hoppy perfection.

I ride home a few hours later with the buzz on and I think

this is my home.

The streets I am most comfortable in.

I know when the sun will set and I predict when the sun will rise but

I don’t ever see it.

I curl up and hide from my neighborhood and (from myself) until

appropriate hours.

And then at the night I come out and

ride these streets, deserted streets,

cold air blowing through my fingers.

I know just where to steer to avoid that

pothole

pothole

crooked concrete

turn here

look before you cross the street

one way

two way

one way

he’s left his lights on again, oh mr. red truck, oh mr red.

cross the street

look left

ride home across the bridge and down the way

oh the buzz again, the lights look so beautiful

and I’m home.

I think about the people I’ve met and I smile a warm feeling but

really it’s the neighborhood that’s got me feeling this way.

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