maribou | still celebrating national bad poetry month

The first time I met you, I was stepping off a bus.
You were smaller than I expected, tangled up, full
of homeless kids who wanted people to think
they might pull a knife, full of people they
didn't want to
meet.

Years later, I flew down highways with a friend of mine,
our arms braced against two states' worth of storm.
We fluttered to a rest on your peaceful streets.
Smelled old books, ate bad pizza, played video games.
Stood between grey buildings and stared
into limitless
grey sky.

I love you for the way these two memories
spoon together in my head.
Kind city, wise city, city of refuge -
at the end of the alley,
there's an old dog
who snaps his teeth
and wags his tail.