Among the steel structures of downtown
is a small, warm pocket of color,

a picturesque little thing to my eyes.

The aunt opening her door
to the salty pink air of dawn
shares the vowels and consonants
that don’t frequent my mind but
sing through my muddy veins

and dance upon my mother’s tongue
in ways the street names cannot.

The aunt walks by a man on the street,
an uncle. And he passes by another.
They pass each other, walking to the tempo
of a thumping pulse,

a drumbeat leading the secret symphony
I long for and grasp tightly to.

For I can never hear a note of it
outside of this little pocket of a home.

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