Peregrine
Location
A friend told me once of l’appel du vide:
a phenomenon in which
a perfectly sane man
can stand on the edge
of a cliff--
and want to jump off.
I replied that certain shampoos
remind me of Ukrainian Village
And in Wicker Park
there are storefronts
you hang around
But never go in.
Couches I’ve slept on
make me peregrine--
No, not like the bird,
but like how if
Philippe Petit fell off the Twin Towers,
he’d probably fly.
And so can I,
when I trip from the grey of Gary
onto an “L” platform several stories up,
and board a train headed for Hyde Park,
where I become suddenly un-alone,
where I realize I am no rolling stone:
I am peregrine,
but I am always home.