This is my home,
these collection of streets
running into lines
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
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
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
look before you cross the street
he’s left his lights on again, oh mr. red truck, oh mr red.
cross the street
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.