Cadence of Echoes, #80

I can’t go home.
The road is broke,
asphalt torn up
by lack of use
and from neglect,
potholes pocked like
teenage acne,
the bridges out
of town collapsed
after some long
ago earthquake.
I won’t go home.
The house we left
hopeless, filthy
and decaying,
our bags huddled
next to the door,
scraps piled up
in foul heaps
on the counter.
The garbage don’t
walk itself out.
This is no home.
I thieved moments
in odd corners
behind piles
of unwashed cloths
when the tenants
had split for work,
moments I could
pretend, begin
my reign. This perch
became my throne.
I have no home.
Leather seats long
since cracked in sun,
in summer heat,
the tires flat,
a jack under
one wheel, spare
propped on the front
bumper prepared
for it’s mounting.
Then I was home.
My song was hummed
down and across
the valley, wings
lifted themselves
up off the ground,
into the skies,
where they could see
the green colors
like oil paints
of children’s hair,
great swath of hens,
all of us flying.
I’d taste the wind.
But, by heavens,
we are nothing
now, just a hint,
the highest cone
of a temple
rising up slowly
from the crest top
of a hill. You
can excavate
and sell tickets,
find pots and beams,
the bottom third
of our city.
I’m not coming
back, a puzzle
unfinished. I
left, took the last
piece from under
your nose. Look, I’m
already home,
ask the foxes,
the animals
hear me baying.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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