Friday, April 18, 2014

Home
















sitting in this greasy, all night, Michigan redneck, café,
sipping on dark stale coffee,
listening to the local philosophers
as they eat their breakfast,
on their way to dry-walling and other
assorted craft jobs,
indoors of course (getting to cold for outside work),
discussing the beating death
of a Wyoming fag (their word),
and how the poor ole boys who did it
will never get a fair trial,
with all the negative publicity,
and what is this world coming too,
when you can’t even bash a few fags around
and get away with it,
after all, they was just having a little fun,
they didn't actually mean to kill
the little fucker (chuckles all around);
while listening the thought occurs,
that with just a different twist of fate,
I could be sitting at that table,
with all the other small town know-it-alls,
discussing world politics and Wyoming fags,
and it is only now that I realize,
I don’t belong here anymore,
just as the swamplands and muskrats
of south jersey do not belong here,
this place I once called home,
has become just another town,
full of strangers I no longer know,
nor care too;
this place leaves me feeling
so empty and impotent;
I think of my wife,
the woman who has been with me
for more years than I once lived
in this place,
the woman whose touch still electrifies me,
the woman who has become my one constant,
my only reality,
the one thing I can depend on,
together we have built a new home,
free from family or friends interference,
she is where I belong;
she is my home.
.
.



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