Sometimes as I sleep, I walk
once again down Cherokee Street
past Nebraska, California, and on towards Jefferson.
I loved this time of year:
the trees perfectly reddened to match the buildings.
I smell fresh tamales and Mexican laundry detergent
and feel warm beneath layers of sweaters.
So many faces pass me I talked to and grew to love.
I bike down Gravois passing Grand and Compton.
Crumbling redgraybrownbrick duplexes where city buses pass
taking people places.
People from so many places once foreign to me.
Others sit on their porches and stair
near Utah by Compton and Juniata -
waiting, conversing, as if nothing else mattered but
a somnolent sidewalk of cement.
I pass more apartment buildings covered in satellites dishes,
people far from their family
trying to connect to something that reminds them of home.
This place has become my home
I realize, as I drive through forest park on Clayton,
and think about how the past two years have gone so fast.
My first day in the field was in March.
My trainer and I on bikes, the barbecues, bright green grass,
down Paris, Rogers, and Wilkes.
Feeling so young and so white,
soon to be lost in so many colors.
Learning to be patient, to have faith, to believe,
and to talk to everyone I could.
I think about the doorsteps I cried on saying good-bye
Keokuk between Gustine and Barnberger.
And about the enpanadas, pupusas, hand pressed tortillas and jamaica.
The arch and all it meant to me.
Watson, Chippewa, Arsenal,
Manchester and Kingshighway.