College Park

 ***

i once wrote a book of poetry

called city speak

and only now realize

i've never let

my own home city

speak, at least,

not in poetry,

at least, not,

to me.

i actually grew up in Cumming

which means in my Catholic household

i could never Google my own address

because the internet filter would call it

pornography, which is to say

that searching for home 

is something 

i've always been

shamed for.

but now i'm in Atlanta, well

in College Park, home to

the red dogs, the rap cats, 

the robbin' crew, 

home to the player, the 'Lacs, 

and the motherfuckin' Outkast, 

and the Black dad I met in La Fiesta, 

who I watched tell his son

that Santa Claus wasn't real

and we laughed

and we laughed

because some things 

are just too good

to be true.

I'm in College Park, home to 

the Skyhawks, and all the weird looks 

from my old white classmates, 

but is it safe?

I'm in College Park, home to 

my new black neighbors

who watched over my broken window

all weekend long 

after the wind knocked it down

and when I got home

told me they walked past every day

to make sure it was okay

because this ain't one of those neighborhoods

no matter what

the news might say.

College Park, where Outkast sang

the pimps do play, and

the kids do too, 

outside my window, each day, 

after school, on

the tennis courts, and

softball fields, and

the cookout

sings, like

harmony.

College Park, home to

the highest violent crime rate

in Georgia 

and my blind dad 

who used to walk

naked and unafraid to 

the corner store

with his dog, "Mary Jane," 

named after his favorite past time,

before he, too, passed. time.

College Park, once home to Big Boi and

Xscape, once home to my dad, and my

grandpa, and to Jermaine Dupri, 

and now, home, to me.

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