you spread out 
like a to-go box of texmex dinner 
colored like people rushing 
across dean keaton dressed in confetti. 
in the evenings you are mellow.
the sun is pink and grad students amble on 
exhausted sidewalks. 
older men pace against blinking red palms
making me nostalgic for my lost youth. but 
I jog too, sometimes, 
on soiled sidewalks hidden by black trees
wearing shirts umbrella-ing my shorts 
breaking bounds I was born with. 
I run kick old rules I laugh 
aloud. how I pleasure 
but in the dark it feels like you
got my back, austin.
you are American when you christen me new 
some days but truly you are Indian -
you do more yoga eat more naan
than India. 
like me you are 
your own home, austin
you give no fucks about purple bald heads 
or doggies who come to class.
you are weird, like home, austin. 
your light shadows my bedroom white and warm.
your people want to say my name
a second time. 
weirdo you are home now.