Where I’m from feels like knobby tires and duct tape with sticky strands,
like dangly blue jean threads high on the thighs of fans .
Where I’m from sounds like disco beats, twisting throttles,
homemade wine sloshing in metal canteens, not bottles.
Homes are tents and barns and waterbeds inside vans
with red and white striped doors with star spangled curtains.
My family is every weekend warrior who shows up at the races,
PBR rinsing mud from the grins on greased faces.
I am small under plastic STP pennant fences,
becoming part of the berm spun at speeds faster than senses.
I breathe in curiosity, I breathe out better questions
Where I’m from feels like, "Why can’t we all be going,
where white flags are last laps, not lost hopes, and
everyone reaches figure 8 checkers flowing?"
[from a collection of pieces - my first church was the race track]
Inspired by a poetry practice guided by Marlon Lizama, 3/14/18
If you want to try writing a "Where I'm From" poem, there are plenty of templates online. I encourage you to give it a try. I came back to this one many times adding sensory details and accidentally it started rhyming, so I went there. If you give it a try, send me what you write!