What City

Years ago, my uncle mentioned that
A friend had found the city
That most suited her.

The thought gripped me.

At the time, fresh from college
And a bit of travel,
I could not imagine a delight
Greater than living in Florence,
That city of architecture,
Painting, sculpture, church, palace,
Bridges, piazzas, steak.

I thought of it, the world’s largest
Art gallery,
As my city. The city that suited me.

I returned later once, for a week.
Still magical, still beautiful.
But I prefer to visit, not live.
I had children then, and it’s a city,
With graffiti and sirens,
Cacophony of noise, tourists, grime.

This holds true for
San Francisco, Chicago, New York.
Such nice places to visit, and leave again.

For a place to live,
I like where I am. In the middle of history—
All Thomas Jefferson, all the time, but he counts—
Near a small city with brilliant people, fun people,
And a liberal arts university where students study
English, religion, Arabic, sociology, chemistry.

Perhaps there is a place that would suit me more,
Somewhere.
But I’m not looking too hard.