Be Someone
As I drive down I-45 at 6:00PM on a Tuesday,
The words “BE SOMEONE”
Appears like an angel Rising to meet my eyes above
My faded black steering wheel.

Man, I love Houston.

Their blocky, light blue coloring, surrounded By a thin white outline, contrasts Their rough metal train tracks contrasts.
These words perfectly title the silhouette 
Of Houston’s skyline against the setting sun.

Man, I love Houston.

These views are home,
The snaking of Buffalo Bayou.
The aching of buildings downtown.
The flaking of murals along Montrose.
This city paints a masterpiece, Reveals its eye, And presses it onto mine.
Eye to eye.

  
Ride Around with that H-Town
Black Chevy thumping down Montrose, check.
Speakers screaming “Out that H-town coming down”, check.  Reverberations skipping through the air, check. Bass blasting Beyoncé, check.
Driver serenading us with “Will you ride around with that H-town”, check.

He drives away, leaving us in an awe, The quiet sun after a calm rain. We turn to each other, and say
“What the f*** was that?”
“I don’t know, but it was great.”

These sounds are home, The hush of the patron at the MFAH. The rush of the traffic on I-69.
The brush of pedestrians downtown. 
This city composes an orchestra, Uncovers its ear,  And presses it onto mine.
Ear to ear.

    ?
Houston in January
As I get ready in the morning,
I assume it’ll be cold outside as it’s mid-January,
So I slide on my skinny denim jeans, Throw on a cozy tan sweater,
And top it all off with a thick army jacket.

But then I remember it’s Houston, Where the humid Galveston bay Breeze blows year round and
The climate is as funky as the inhabitants.
Maybe I should grab a t-shirt and shorts, just in case.

These feelings are home, The warm kiss of the sun on a Tuesday.
The torn-up sidewalks that trip my feet.
The rain storms that cool my dermis.
This city reaches out in a hug, Bares its skin,
And presses it onto mine.
Skin to skin.

   ?
With a K
“Here ya go, enjoy”
Said Ms. Jackie, as she handed us
Our plate, piping hot 
From the kitchen of the Breakfast Klub.
It’s essential you spell it with a “K.”

The chicken, fresh from the kitchen,
Cuddles pockets of spices among 
Its crispy folds, perfectly contrasting The sweet dough of the waffle,  Drowning in Aunt Jemima’s.

These tastes are home,
The crunchy shells of the street tacos,
The funky flavors of passing food trucks, The country BBQ of the dirty South. 
This city presents a platter, Opens its mouth, 
And presses it onto mine.
Mouth to mouth.

   ?
Cherubs in a Smog
As I walk down Bissonnet Blvd,
The sweet smell of gasoline guides
My mind. Thick and heavy, it sits  In the air like cherubs resting in a dense smog, Reinforced by the passing of every car. 

Man, I love Houston.

Pockets of odors occasionally break 
Up the thick sea of exhaust as I stroll by.
They snake into my nostrils, serving as
Free advertisement, alerting me of the fresh sweets That can be found within each storefront.

Man, I love Houston.

These smells are home,
The fleeting scent of the bayou after a long rain, The greeting fragrance of pancake batter on a hot skillet,
The meeting of salty coastal breezes and pressed gasoline.
The city sprays its aroma, Exposes its nose, And presses it onto mine.
Nose to nose.

Damn, I love Houston.