Skyline

My life is a cityscape.
It’s constantly changing,
growing,
losing parts here and there
and gaining others.
Here is a newer building
with an old foundation;
it is still under construction
but it is the tallest
and it reaches towards heaven.
Here is a sprawling apartment complex,
full of people
and spiraling outward,
but all connected at the center,
tied together at the root.
Here is a library,
full of the books I’ve read,
wanted to read,
and haven’t read yet.
There’s a section for words
I have both said and not,
a section for letters written and never sent,
for poems composed and never shared.
Some sections are full of words about just one person.
Some sections are familiar and well-tread,
by myself and by others,
and some lie in a thick coat of dust,
waiting for a reader who may never come.
I do not have a library card.
Here is an abandoned building,
and it hurts that the people who once filled it
are gone.
Here is an abandoned building,
and I never want to see it filled again.
Here is a building I’ve marked ‘condemned,’
yet I have not completely cleaned it out
and I still come back to visit.
There’s a sick sort of fascination with the condemned.
Standing on a roof at the edge of my city,
I can see buildings rise and fall.
I know each one so well,
and I know the ones I want to build.
I don’t like every part of this place,
but I am proud of it.
I am proud of
skyscrapers thrusting in the air,
small houses squatting side by side,
parks lit by laughter,
coffee shops permeated by memories,
a library filled with my words.
I know my city, and I love it.
I love its smooth edges and its rough parts.
I hope it looks as good from other cities
as it does from within.

written November 18, 2018