home

sitting in this greasy,

all night,

Michigan redneck, cafe,

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 mean to kill the little fucker,

(chuckles all around);

while listening, the thought occurs,

that with just a slight 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 swamp lands 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 the interference of family

or friends,

she is where I belong;

she is my home.

.

.