when you’re homesick,
you can close your eyes

and hear the whispers 
of overgrown wheat fields in the wind
that caress your body
as you stand, feet rooted in familiar soil.

you can hear inflections and accents
echoing off brick buildings
spilling out of old men’s pipes,
and neatly landing on your tongue.

when you’re homesick 
you write olive tree poems
the sounds of your childhood twist into prose,
into branches that rock you to sleep.

but as the golden sun sets
we restless spirits
apparitions of the metropolis
watch you from afar.

we who live in the fluorescent light 
reflected off street puddles
are not like you.

we stand outside 24 hour corner stores
as faceless people in overcoats walk through us.

and when we are homesick
we scour the damp dark 
back alley of the subconscious.

halfway between sleep and dream
we inhabit the in-between
and we are beautiful.