September 20, 2010

Nomad

By Tony Brown

I never liked Seattle.
Too many of the homeless
looked like my father.

In Southern California,
there are seventeen faces
shared by everyone
and I couldn’t tell them apart.

Albuquerque and Gallup
filled up my rearview
with insistent new ghosts
who claimed they were relations.

Austin and Dallas
made me lonely
for those I’d never known
and I knew I’d find them
if I stayed too long.

Kansas City has a bad neighborhood
or two or three, they told me at the hotel.
They all felt bad to me.

Chicago laid itself at my feet
and then swept my leg.
I left my bags on an El platform
in December, in rain,
and never went back to get them.

I was robbed in New York City,
by New York City, of all I had left,
so I went home.

Then I was home,
one haunted room full of avalanche drums
and a slim face pinched in the closet door.
I couldn’t wait to go again.

I know my tribe
is waiting for me in bus stations
and airport bars.

We don’t talk much
and we like it just fine that way.

A nod and a flick of the eyelid
is enough to make a stool or a bench
home,
which is where we are
when only we are there.

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About Tony Brown

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A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown
This entry was posted on Monday, September 20th, 2010 at 1:06 pm and tagged with , , and posted in poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.

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