Where Do You Come From

My parents will tell you I'm from Texas
and sometimes they are right.
The state seal is on my birth certificate
and I believe in using the word y'all
early and often (and all y'all if necessary).
But I don't ever think it's God's Country
so I know I must be from somewhere else.

If I was asked to pick MY city —
you know, the one skyline that calls to me —
it would be Chicago, hands down:
Wrigley Field and sauce on top of pizza
and the El and reflections in the Bean
and caramel cheese popcorn
and St. Peter's in the Loop.
But it's hard to find a quiet spot
so I know I must be from somewhere else.

I started learning Scottish Gaelic
as a pandemic hobby because I can't help
but be from a place that names the unicorn
as its national animal and now I know
how to say "The Loch Ness Monster drinks whiskey"*
and I chose my football club to love or hate, depending.
But the moors are a long way off
so I know I must be from somewhere else.

I am at home where the sun sets over cornfields,
where pizza is round but cut into squares,
where a concrete purple hippo guards the highway,
and for a time its motto was "It's Cool," though it wasn't.
Potholes may swallow us whole
and it floods under the overpass when it rains.
But my heart remains in Middletown, for better or worse,
and I know that's where I come from.

*Tha Niseag ag ol uisge-beatha.

This was written as part of National Poetry Writing Month 2021, sparked by the NaPoWriMo prompt for April 18 to write a poem inspired by a chapter title from Poemcrazy by Susan G. Woolridge.