the privilege of living where you were born

-


Breeze from the south

East at my back

Ancestors we buried just north


Here I find myself

atop a lichen speckled boulder

hoping to be shouldered

by the forest of sounds:


birds kick up dried oak leaves

buzzing of some bee or cicada or fly

A murder cawing in the distance

Murderous road whirs with car noise 

Just as before, as before.


“Is life-living so worth it?”

A small part of me dares to ask

Only to hear my grandfather’s

cheshired reply 


“Well you tell me, kid. 

It’s not my life 

we’re talking about,

is it, is it?”


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