Foreign City

The early morning air
That quickens the blood
Turns my hometown
Into a foreign city.
Stepping into the well-known light,
I feel a hotel breakfast
Stirring in my stomach,
Foreign coffee brewing in my brain.

My own streets look like
Rues and strasse’s
The bridges I have always crossed
Are monumental,
And the graffiti have become
Colorful and artistic.

And the passing cigarettes
Seductive as incense.
The aromas of baking
Reach me before smells of the road,
Yet something yanks me back–
The screech of a bus,
The wail of an ambulance–
To the everyday smells
Of Cleveland.