Poets' Practice Pad

This isn't the first draft. I'm not really happy with it, so it's not the final draft, either. Any comments, suggestions or advice will be considered and appreciated.

Rochester

From Flour City to
Flower City
before my birth.
A city of gray and
charcoal with a hint
of lilac, in my mind.

I remember
          St. Mary's looming grayly
          on a winter day,
          replaced by a parking lot.
I see
         a parking garage
         looming grayly every day.
I remember
          Kodak,
          our security,
          Eastman Theater,
          School of Music
          Eastman house
          city lifeblood.
I see
          a company
          struggling
          to survive.
I remember
          Downtown, busy
          Shops across the bridge
          replaced by a park
          with a view of
          Xerox Tower and
          the Genesee
I see
          littered streets, empty
          but for Eastman patrons
          rushing from the Theater.

I left the city of my birth.
The city I knew is gone.



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Everything hangs on words, including ourselves. Often we only learn what we think -- and who we are -- when we write. -- Roger Rosenblatt, Family University Professor in Writing