But where are my poems from?

nat-lipstadt Poems

My poems, where are they from? Westerner. An appellation, of the 'hood of my nation, Customary identity association, But not one that springs to mind, When they inquire, as they do, Hey man, tell us about your "self." But there is no deniability, At least three hundred years, That my father was aware, Europe to America, Westward ** the seeds sown. From the banks of the Lippe, Ocean crossing to NYC, From the Krakow Ghetto To the shores of the Manhattan Indian Reservation, By the banks of the grandest river Hudson, They journeyed, they sojourned, Staying for awhile, scattering across the Midwest, "Coming to America." Yet out West, I am an Easterner, My hometown teams, In the East Division, And this schizophrenia Is non-problematical. But where are my poems from? I have studied the time zones,. The AM's and the PM's. I know when I deliver this to you, If the sun is rising or setting, Whether to greet you with नमस्कार or magandang umaga, Greet you with a "Good Sabbath!" Or an Insh'Allah... But where are my poems from? Bog of technical definitions, Matters not, my poems have no Passport to be stamped, The Customs lines they cross are the Customs of mine and yours. The are both immigrant and emigre, Experienced, well travelled, they familiar With the right satellites to Grace thy welcoming space. Tap dance, recitations of evasions, Answer the question man, But where are my poems from? You tell the when, the how but not the Where. We can't wait much longer, The inbox heavy with homework, Your poems to love, like and take. Don't you see? They, born in the West, For lack of a better answer, Clock and setting sun racers, Surfing the Atlantic, Indian, Circumnavigating the Pacific Isles, Is just the course they take When out my window sent. But is that your answer, Their path, to the single quest, From the West, is that the best Answer you can equivocate, Where do they come from? **No. Obviously, They come from you...**