Sunday, January 31, 2016

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 too 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,
what 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 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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