my roots are covered in a richer shit
and soaked with the stuff of life;
my soil is torn blood-rock and trash
through which only a hardier variety thrives,
the place where the crow pecks and scratches
where one learns to speak with a thousand voices,
to look with a thousand eyes.
I belong to the hot summer pavement
and the dry cracked earth
filled with nettle and weed;
this…this is my yellow sun,
this is where I grow strong,
this place is where I belong.