I don't mind your tall city,
but I like my small city.
I like the rough brick sidewalk next to the church across the street,
the canopy of power lines and telephone wires,
the yellow light on the wooden porch
that lets me be a city boy
or a country boy, if I ignore that train whistle.
I like that everything seems just a little untidy,
like someone took a dusty Indiana town and just kept working on it
until it turned into a city,
but that I don't feel like I have to wash my hands
after everything I touch.
You can keep your fifty-first story view;
I like the secret rooftops of Xalapa and Old Jerusalem
with clothes lines and lawn chairs,
where tarps are hung to shield the spot
where that guy smokes weed and prints T-shirts.
I like my small cities.
