Ben McKeown

In a plane,
home I’m going.
I feel it - for the first time in a long while:
home.
I’m coming.

I spent the weekend in a city of sound
a city of rust, of dirt, of peeling paint,
of distance.
Now I’m coming to a city of trees
a city of art, of windows, of conversation,
of progress.

What I wonder
is if I make this city so perfect
or if this city makes me know it.
It must be the city, I believe,
for its allure never fades.