A few days ago, I finally had that feeling other poets surely know, that sense of, I’ve got a poem to write.” It was the first time since my move home to Detroit at the beginning of June—the first time in several months, actually.

Over the past few days, I’ve drafted and revised two poems (which now need time to simmer, perhaps some input from others, and more revision). Both are slice-of-life narratives, both about a single afternoon: the afternoon I learned it takes longer to bus home to the University District from Eastpointe (née East Detroit) than it does to drive home from Flint during rush hour (which my roommate was doing at the time).

Now, since I’ve been home, I’ve enjoyed some of the great activities and places Detroit has to offer. I’ve been back to my church—jumped back into lectoring again already!—and have shopped at Eastern Market several times, including the new Sunday artists’ market; I checked out Log Cabin Day at Palmer Park, and enjoyed the RiverWalk (or River Front; it’s unclear to me), the Detroit Ford Fireworks (formerly known as the Windsor-Detroit International Freedom Festival), and, just today, the Concert of Colors. None of these inspired poetry. A bus ride, however, inspired two.

(I’m not going to post them here. I know, I’m such a tease.)

This has me thinking now about Detroit’s rebirth, which is largely contained in Midtown and Downtown, and the everyday lives those of us in the neighborhoods experience. It has me wondering why all the good things, the things I intend to celebrate, with more than a hyperlink, in this blog, things which are beautiful, which are welcome, which welcome me home—none of these births poetry in me. A bus ride along McNichols (a.k.a. 6 Mile), however, produced twins.

It definitely has me looking more closely at the ordinary things in life.

In my neighborhood, though, in the last couple of weeks, I’ve seen five burned-out houses on my street demolished, the rubble removed, and, finally, today, the holes filled in with dirt. I’m the kind of poet this should inspire, but no. Not that either. I guess the poetic muse isn’t interested in bulldozers.