I belong in a place not buried in traffic lights
where the roads are endless—wheels spinning
in full speed, with open windows, and coughless winds
I belong in a place not plagued by brimming buses
where seats are natural resources, and every weary
bone can rest through the steady ride, no slipping, no
holding on for dear life, yes, I belong in a place
where there’s time and air and reprise, a place
where I can nurture my culture and trace shapes
in the star-coated skies, where I can sing karaoke
and listen to the clucking hen, where I can stitch a rose,
with a tomorrow where I can live this dream again.