My city smells like new grass after a rain.
Clean dirt, and damp cement.
Bakeries and newly sawn wood.
It sounds like people on the dance floor,
Karaoke on Wednesdays, and the new moon overhead.
It looks like old growth, vibrancy, grit and boot straps, layered with glass and metal and prosperity.
It tastes like barbecue and beer, bread and blunts.
Smoky grills on a Sunday afternoon surrounded by laughter and light.
This Bourgeoning bull city of bourbon and baseball.
This is our city.
It feels like home.
-HM Braverman
YOU ARE READING
Crepes of Wrath
Poetry*FEATURED on WP Poetry* **FIRST PLACE IN POETRY** -EC (earnesty community) Poetry Contest (over 100 entries) -The Blue Rose Awards Come on in and take a seat at the diner! I'm serving Crepes with a side of Poetry here. And of course, lots and lot...
