A little poem of place.

My hometown, deemed dreary or too pious
by those in the know,
it always puzzled me, as if it was a choice where we are born
scrolling through the great cities
in the ether,
I pity the shallow soul whose pride is founded on a name
that small step towards exceptionalism,
although we are by no means immune to boast
of our medium size city on the gulf
often flown over by the big-name stars, mocked for its piety
where churches vie with bars for our souls,
all I really know is I was born here, on an arid dusty plain
where the cool change keeps you waiting,
vines and olive trees prosper as immigrant flora banishes
majestic gums,
people here before are still here, they have a reverence
for place rooted in dreaming deep and pure,
we built over their sacred places, while our pink faces
sweated with toil,
my hometown, I love the ground I understand, that is all
we can ever control.
do not extol or laud what you cannot afford, mansions by the water,
rather, turn and embrace son and daughter
in this place, medium sized and often surprised by itself.

Chris