I'm from down the street,
the yellow house by the RV lot
the Pizza Hut and climbing spot.
Woods and leaves and dirt and trees
and paper and pen and asphalt and all these things can
I'm from the people who don't get it and the people who don't get it,
from the people who try and the people who give it up so that it's gone forever.
From the box that got bigger till its sides split,
from the ribbon that got tighter till its tie quit,
from the time when gas was a dollar eighty-five.
From the turtle shell that took a lot of kicks,
from when bones were broken by metaphorical sticks,
from that other apartment on the second floor.
That smell that comes with spring,
when the sun comes out and the snow's melting,
when the grass gets muddy and the birdies sing.
Fresh clipped grass and the thwack of the iron
flying to the green.
Sticks on the drums,
thump thump thump.
I'm from the basement with the windows that work,
where the glow doesn't come from the computer and the TV
but from The Source.
I'm from the place where people ask where you're from, and you say…