Good Enough to be Home

A 2017 poem I've revised a bit. Another poem that's from the 'before I learned to love the city' collection. The more I revisits late 2010 era poems the I more I see these pop up.

Photo by Tia Cunningham on Unsplash

Beyond Baltimore’s roll of the dice 
of bad traffic that could drive you 
into hospital debt or an Uber 
not worth the cost of gas, 
what is there? Clusters 
of Toyotas and Cadillacs 
locked together in the streets 
in droning horn screeching matches. 
They’re so close together, 
they resemble the trash bags 
in the back of cloudy emerald green 
garbage trucks. If I were to look further 
up the road, I’d see no hope 
of clear concrete or traffic. 
I’d see more of the scratched metal
cars sloppily covered up 
by dollar store brought paint
than the dark road cracked 
and neglected to hell. Beyond 
the dilapidated manmade ruins
that stand empty and unused 
but full to the brim 
with untapped potential 
what is there? Rusted fences 
that one would think could erode 
to dust if brushed against by accident. 
There's so many of them.
They seem to outnumber the fields 
of premature spring dandelions 
that stay planted, 
untouched 
and stagnant 
forever in the city.
Just like me. 
I’ve been told by a friend 
who stopped being so
a few years ago, 
who’s from New York, 
that like Baltimore 
it has bad traffic, 
terrible weather
and abandoned buildings
that only house orphaned dreams. 
New York has a great reputation 
but to hear that it’s similar to Baltimore 
does not force my curiosity into shock therapy.   
It doesn't make me want to jump 
on a plane or bus and run away 
to somewhere that isn’t home. 
Despite all the eye pollution 
Baltimore offers, 
it is my home.
It'll always be
my home.

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