I am from the front porch, 
screened with enough holes 
for the biters anyway, open 
to the wind winning out against 
the floor fan, the roof heavy
with leaning branches, the view
laden with tree-leaning kayaks,
like all of us, dreaming of use, 
and a gravel drive leading in 
so far from where I came from.

There, the world was more vertical 
with clanging earthmovers, carefully 
balanced cranes, more horizontal 
with highways, and joke/ no joke 
which exit are you from? I am from
yellers and avoiders, late sleepers 
and insomniacs, coffee-drinkers, 
even if it's Sanka, and dessert-bearers 
determined to have too much because
of pogroms and lost cousins. 
We are, we were first and second-
generation camplainers on stoops 
crowded with potted African violets.

I am from house-huggers, perching
on edges close to a car or door, 
afraid to go too far or going so far 
it’s hard to remember what we left,
one old country begetting another,
but wherever we were, we perched
on the ledges and edges, so hungry
for the bigger sky to save us.