You’re not something I’ll miss leaving behind,
And ending this poem with “You” is cliché,
The last thing I’d be.
What I’ll miss about my California home
Is the view of the stars
In the night sky.
They send me to sleep
As they have for years,
The desert chill replaced
And radio towers.
I’ll miss the year-round avocados
And the “97 degress again, goddamn”-s
That I say for all three months
What I’ll miss about California is family
Roots I have laid down for years and years
Torn up from the soil
To grow into quick steps and
From tax-paid bus rides
And slow moving lines.
But what I’ll miss about California
I’ll find in little ways
That mirror them
Away in New York.