"Where I'm From" after George Ella Lyon

I am from the sandy litter that sticks

to the linoleum and then

to the bottom of my  feet and 
wet whiskery kisses (don't bite!) at three a.m.

I am from the salt of the icy streets

the absurd cold

whose welcome wore out long before
any memory of leafy greens lining clear sidewalks.

I’m from the Knapp Hill and Wichita Falls,

steaming potatoes served at every meal 
          and sometimes spicy chili.

From my granddad’s flat feet 
          and my mother’s worry,

and the insanity my father pleads to keep from going hungry.

I’m from Keebler chocolate Elves

and TV dinners and thick bifocals.

I’m from Roald Dahl’s giant peach,

and Rowling’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

I’m from audio books and paperbacks

and pictures books and chapter books.
From fiction, biography, action and adventure, 
     and philosophy.
I'm from hard covers and library fines and

dog-eared corners and tissues marking the page

because just like food nourishes the body, 

stories nourish my soul.

I used to have an old saxophone.

Now, somewhere, she rests in a case, 
scattered with dry, brittle reeds,

in her a mausoleum of sound,
her growling blue notes muted and impatient.

I am from pieces that fit—

and pieces that strike against each other

to make fire, and warmth 
and destruction and memory.