Newnan, Georgia

I’ve recently started going through my old poetry. This one is circa 2004, an ode to my hometown, edited this week. Perhaps it’s better to let old poetry die.

Sometimes I believe
that nights like this –
in the kitchen, windows down,
the smell of heat cooling in the air,
bodies affected by humidity-
will linger,
last
on past my childhood.
But I know, as I pack up – move out and on –
they won’t.
That someday I may think I
smell it, see it
in the corner of an attic somewhere
or a small gas station on my way to somewhere big-
but it won’t be there.
It’s only here-
I am only here

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