My Hometown

6 Feb


My hometown.  The train.

The horn. Cigarettes.

Dusty old tracks.

Dew in the morning

on my feet

in my face

The air, crisp.

Crunch of leaves

under my cold feet.


In my hometown

it is always fall

It is always morning

It is always wet

I am always home.



full rumbling belly

longing to be gone

Leaping toward the world

From birth, ready

to leave these tracks

Empty aching belly.



When I go back,

Raiders, crusaders, towers 

consume all that was,

take my place.


I do not hear the train.

I do not long to be gone.

Keys in my pocket, and

a baggage stub.

I am not home.

This is not my hometown.



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