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(Poetry) Returning Home
Coming around the
hill, on the Interstate
at the Ridgecut,
the city sweeps into view:
the trees on the roadside edge
are only partly blocking
obscuring the upside-down skyscape of white streetlamps
garnished with red and blue from signs and towers
and the spray of light from cars in motion.
even talk about residing here:
not so much difficult as often inaccurate,
needing a sense of humility from the teller and
eventually the sense of pride in the hearer.
Sometimes this trick is handled with finesse, and,
sometimes, the results dwindle with regrets.
Even so, the land remains the same —
especially the view from the Ridgecut on I-24.