Peregrine

A friend told me once of l’appel du vide:

a phenomenon in which

a perfectly sane man

can stand on the edge

of a cliff--

and want to jump off.

I replied that certain shampoos

remind me of Ukrainian Village

And in Wicker Park

there are storefronts

you hang around

But never go in.

Couches I’ve slept on

make me peregrine--

No, not like the bird,

but like how if

Philippe Petit fell off the Twin Towers,

he’d probably fly.

And so can I,

when I trip from the grey of Gary

onto an “L” platform several stories up,

and board a train headed for Hyde Park,

where I become suddenly un-alone,

where I realize I am no rolling stone:

I am peregrine,

but I am always home.