Reconsidering Dixie

I like where I live—
the roads are just narrow enough you can only 
think of where you're headed.

Grown men go to the park and watch ballgames, 
each with a cooler tucked under his feet—
even though none of the boys are any sons they know.

I like where I live—
because if you get lucky enough,
there’s love or war over
haircuts, jibs, and playlists. 

You can forget where you've been here 
because they're always building new strip malls 
in the view of your yard, 
so the sky meets the plains 
with a sign for a new tire shop or restaurant.

You can still buy pot from an ex-marathon runner 
under the high school bleachers. 

You kissed your first girlfriend there too.  
She tasted like garlic but she didn't look Italian.

I like where I live, 
because I can't always remember how 
many traffic lights there are between here and nowhere—
or the river…whichever dead ends first.

A boy replaces his worn shoelaces 
with the twine he used for a kite string. 
It has a shielded "S" printed on the plastic. 
He ages ten years as he pushes it down into a trash can.

He looks at me as I smoke a cigarette 
waiting for my girlfriend outside 
the large windows of a perfume boutique she frequents. 
I prefer the offers of air.

He points and says, 
"Those things will kill you," 
and waits until I snuff out the cherry against a brick.
He waves and smiles as if he did me a favor 
and I can't argue or do anything 

but wave and smile back  as he disappears in the distance, 
content to be alive where he is, 
because he likes where he lives.

by Steven Vineis