A Dream of Home

You cannot go home again

unless you open up your brain,
memory spilling out onto once empty
streets, ghosts calling out your name,
smiles stamped on synapses. Sidewalks
unfurl like a tongue come out to play,
leading to the sandbox, swings, and childish games.

But nothing ever is the same;

Flowers wilted on the stem, pictures
somehow moved within the homesite,
gnarly trunks where saplings use to be.
Voices speaking within tunnel vision;
the myopia of the years turning
everything to sepia colored photographs

For what is this thing called 'Home" anyway?

The years rain down like chalk dust,
sawdust from the desk on which you carved
your name, your lessons never really learned;
all you do is grasp thin air where once a loved
one stood. All you can do today is mourn, and yearn.

And age will see you missing people more and more.


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