Glasgow

Glasgow does not choke
on its history.

The city breathes deeply.

Brick and stone,
iron and rain,
work held in the walls.

The city takes it in

and exhales

voices,
laughter,
coffee,
questions,
music.

I arrive early,
nearly sixty-four,
giddy as a schoolboy
on his first day.

Which, in fact,
I am.

Inside,
brick walls,
earthy and alive.

Upstairs,
the coffee shop fills
with children,
parents,
instrument cases,
a dozen languages,
espresso steam,
paper cups,
nervousness,
pride.

Possibility.

What surprises me
is how ordinary
excellence looks.

Brilliance
in everyday clothes.

Kindness.
Compassion.
Generosity of spirit.

People unlike me
become simply people.

People loving music.

People loving people
who love music.

That evening,
above bad karaoke
and the smell of stale beer,
on chairs that sit badly,
with rain beginning outside,

I am free.

Alive.

Wanted
for myself.

That night,
laughter still in my ears,
music ringing too loudly,

I sleep
in peace.

Morning comes
and fear returns.

Do I belong?
Is this real?

I speak when I am afraid,
check my pulse
on my watch,
feel foolish,
ashamed,
joyful,

and stay.

When it is over,
I step outside.

Grey sky.
Cars passing.
The city moving on.

Nothing has changed.

Everything has.

Glasgow breathes in
its history

and breathes out
possibility.

And somehow,

so do I.