Poetry About Hometown

Main Street looks shorter now than it did from a bicycle seat. The bakery has changed names, but cinnamon still finds the sidewalk. Someone waves before deciding whether they remember me. At the old field, new houses stand where we once chased dusk. A hometown keeps early versions of us in other people's stories. Leaving taught me which streets had entered my sense of direction.

Someone waves before deciding whether they remember me. The river still bends behind the school and carries everything onward. Some doors welcome; others preserve the reasons we had to go. Belonging here is neither simple pride nor simple escape. The town changes slowly until one return reveals it all at once. Home can be a place we love without asking it to stay unchanged.

Main Street looks shorter now than it did from a bicycle seat. A hometown keeps early versions of us in other people's stories. Leaving taught me which streets had entered my sense of direction. Belonging here is neither simple pride nor simple escape. I drive away with the courthouse shrinking in the mirror. Home can be a place we love without asking it to stay unchanged.