City

I am the city.

I am the stop sign leaning on 5th and Pearl.

I am the fog hanging over downtown in the morning

I am the hum of electric wires mixed with cicadas at the end of a hot day.

I am the city.

You can hear my voice on the foghorn that echoes over the docks.

You can feel my touch when your breath billows in the cold air.

You can smell my sweet blossoms of spring mixing with concrete and oil.

I am the city.

I am the weeds growing in the unkempt yards.

I am the cracks fomenting in the sidewalks.

I am the hot steam billowing up from the sewers.

I am the city.

I am the city.

I am the city. And I am empty now.

You have each carried a part of me with you when you left.

It is a part I will never get back. It is a part I do not want back.

For I am you, and you are me too.

I am scared now.

Scared of what will happen to me without you.

Scared of the rapid aging of my well maintained facades.

Scare of the men with guns and the other men with bigger guns.

They are not from here.

They do not care about what you have left behind.

They do not care about your snow globe from a faraway land.

They do not care about your handwoven quilt, passed down.

They do not care about your homes.

Now pocketed with bullet holes, or burnt up by gasoline.

I will try.

I will try to keep your home safe.

I will try to hold onto these pieces of you.

I will try not to forget your faces. Your smiles.

I am Palmyra. And I am You.