brooklyn owes the charmer under me in poetry

Some people miss the summer sounds of insects peeping.
I miss the rock of subway trains and roll of distant car alarms.
I miss the noise sometimes so much that I could burst.
I guess I’m just a cliche in reverse.

Lemonade and porch swings just sway me to sleep.
Picnics with a cool breeze bore me ‘til I weep.
All this quiet contemplation only drives a thirst.
I guess I’m just a cliche in reverse.

I miss the hustle and the bustle.
Miss the crowd. Miss the loud.
The emptiness of clear blue skies does not leave me wowed.
Hiking’s for the bird watchers, black flies are worst.
I guess I’m just a cliche in reverse.