
I was born, the fifties, New York City,
though I wish I’d grown up in a small town,
near a stream perhaps, water racing down,
I’d embrace that life with alacrity.
I’m sure though I’d display tenacity,
right after donning high school’s cap and gown,
to move north to the urban sprawl or drown,
bright lights appeal to my insanity.
They’d chew me up, innocent from the grotto,
break me down, leave me sad and despondent,
unable to cope, keep up with the pace.
No, better to have grown in the ghetto,
a six-story walk-up, a tenement,
nothing to sacrifice, no loss of grace.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013

That says a lot. Feels like those people who aren’t exactly sure where they belong. Country/city but wherever you live, the other place is just a dream/fantasy and might not be what you expect it to be. We find our spot eventually. I was lucky. I was born in Chicago and knew I belonged there right away. You could use this as a metaphor for any number of things. Very nicely done. Great poem.
Thank you, h&r. I appreciate your comments and your perusing the archives a bit for this one. I always felt that I was exactly who I was intended to be, as you have mentioned was the same for you. —–Chagall