I’ve never felt at home in any town
or public space,
always counted my steps in measure
with soft staccato. Try not to trample
golden blooms against the asphalt
lest someone raise their voice at me
(YOU DON’T BELONG HERE)
and see me for what I really am.
I can’t imagine breaking the sidewalk with the sway of my hips
and owning that space,
taking it for mine;
I’m just a renter, a carpetbagger with a sleeve full of apologies.
I marvel at those men who swagger,
thumbs hooked in belt loops,
eyeing the scenery and making it theirs.
They lean out of windows to spit,
marking the topography,
leaving their own graffiti to prove they were there.