Revised Poem: The Street Where I Live

I try to revise often, but it's definitely a harder process than the initial production (hence why I appreciate any and all comments whether or not you think you're "qualified"). Although I don't post all my revisions, I thought I'd post this one; I think it's a good step up from the initial poem.

The Street Where I Live

Out of the rain, the chatter or cars,

the whistle of trains, and the clang of iron

shivering downstairs as my neighbor slips out,

(to where, I have never known)

I am eyes closed in a dawning room,

too soon awake, still half-asleep,

sifting through my memories of soft beds.

As my mind drifts, I am there

like the wide room where I was a child,

Savannah, wrapped in a blue blanket,

dreams, the years yet to be lived, laughter,

joys and fears to be jotted down.

Or I’m in Japan with silence and hunger,

for I am a poor man and a rich fool,

straining out words from the garble outside,

doubt-filled, toes open to the air.

Then waking in Madrid’s sleepless heart,

cheap bars grating open beneath me

like eyelids after a long dark, I am tired

of cobbled alleys and empty parks.

And what of Vermont? The brush of wind on snow,

a scent of pine, the hush of family footsteps.

I can believe I’m not alone – here, now,

eyes opening, ears hearing the past.

Though I’m back in my own time with the birds,

the other places, just one street out of sight,

embrace me like a city. I feel them for miles;

these isles that dot my world:

when I think on them, they near, ripe with who I was,

to the brink of my horizon. Patient, dear old friends,

they are the breeze and leafy trees who give

rustling to the street where I live.