i never, ever thought i would identify
so strongly with a place
but my heart
leaps
at being called “a New Yorker”
and i can’t help but write
countless poems about
the place
and the people
and the identity
and my heart beats harder
and my anxiety lulls softer
when anywhere that reminds me
of my chosen home
[would i still feel like a New Yorker
if we fled to Paris
for safety?]
i still can’t get over
how much this city,
though so different
from my concrete jungle,
can remind me so much
of home
from the pigeons
and mourning doves
and stray cats
everywhere
to the instances of
so many different
languages being spoken
and written down
to its walkability
and metro system,
even the tourist traps
are cute reminders
of my home’s downtown
[feeling at home
even in a foreign city —
the story of new yorkers abroad]
kipventures 