The City Poem by Nate Truman

I'm a Midwest boy,
With my golden wheat fields, crystal lakes, and dusky timberlands.
And while I sit upon my circular, rocky shores,
I'm home.

I'm a Midwest boy,
With the old, neon breakfast joint, owned by the ancient widow with the mole on her face,
The five old regulars in the corner drinking their coffee, complaining about their wives,
And as I sit next to the worn out poster of a pile of flapjacks on the counter,
I'm home.

I'm a Midwest boy,
With my endless winters,
The minutes crawling by, the sun staying forever hidden.
And in the towers of snow which threaten to drown the unwary,
I'm home.

It is a foreign and strange beast,
With its acrid smells, aloof suits, and pseudointellectuals.
Here, in the belly of the beast, nothing sleeps.
Arrogant and haughty, it's confident in its singular importance,


The rest of America, (the deadweight of America) merely an afterthought,
Just background noise for the wonder that is the big city.
The blinding lights, the sneering bankers, the blaring horns,
The stench of sewage, the smog covered stars, and the sardine like existence.
Ah yes, that's where the heart of America truly lives.