Rose City
All those years of awe for the city, my city.
Walking down the park blocks,
I watched protesters setting camp in the grass
under the cedars heavy with rain.
Occupy Wallstreet in the Pacific Northwest.
I would take the tram into the Pearl to find
abandoned warehouses turned into shoppes
and five-star bars and restaurants.
The bookstore on Burnside
still rough on the outside, but inside
color and gloss to appeal to Raleigh Hill clientele.
I was a college girl who stopped at the smoke shop
and leafed through the lit mags smelling of tobacco.
I could never afford to buy any of them.
Now that I’m back, the store smells more like e-cigarettes
than cigars, its windows broken by the riots,
boarded up by rain-soaked plywood.
I used to think anything was possible.
I used to find inspiration in the rain
and in the graffiti on the brick buildings.
But now I realize ‘possible’ is anywhere I am; possible is in me.
When I left those years ago, I found what I was capable of.
I found myself to worship, day after day I built myself from the ground up.
Nothing in life is easy, but when I visit an old place
I look back at who I was and who I am,
and I’ve found that I’m always the sum of both parts.
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