and sometimes

And sometimes I feel

I could walk right out of this city

pull it off me like a dead skin

discard it as a long bad dream

finally over

catch an early plane

leave like the others

who left me

the same way


and sometimes I feel

that these short roots

I planted here

will recoil with pain and sadness

as I pull them

from the dry ground

and the birds that squawked into

my mornings

will cry tears

and those few people

whose roots are deeper and

longer and more tightly wound here

will stretch their branches

up to reach that plane

that takes me away from them


And I will cry

with the birds.



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