I am not Minnesota like Garrison Keillor,
nor Florida like Carl Hiaasen and Dave Barry,
not even New Jersey like Richard Ford.
I am pieces of all the places I lived in
as different as the time zones
in which they sit.
I am the candle store at Old Town in Kissimmee, Florida,
transfixed by one color being sensuously carved into many,
from one long bulk of wax.
I am Tomorrowland at Walt Disney World,
my home whenever I was there all day,
happily lost in the glitter of stars,
and the promise of tomorrow.
I am the view of the twinkling canyon in the night,
from the hilltop parking lot of La Mesa Junior High
in Canyon Country in Santa Clarita,
during some event or recital held there,
able to see it thanks to my father
having to be there for whatever was held inside.
I am The Cosmopolitan on the Las Vegas Strip,
before it was stripped of its creativity and
welcoming light and encouraging art,
digital, music, and otherwise,
when an investment group that did not understand
its pulsing power,
took over and gutted it.
I am that cream-colored hallway to the hotel lobby at
Green Valley Ranch,
elegant, graceful, with music
that made me think that whoever
programmed The Cosmopolitan
had fled there.
I miss pretending to feel wealthy
down that hallway,
all its gently artistic touches
mine. All mine.
Lately I am the library at Ventura College,
lost in the stacks,
but not lost like that,
overjoyed to discover books that I didn't know existed,
that very few there today knows existed.
I cannot easily find or know home
with how many times we've moved,
but the college library is a start
like all the others.
