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 demolition. 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.