Home’s just a state of mind.
One needs no place at all.
Sometimes I look for it
around the bend, knowing well
it’s not there; never was
in the plot of things, just an artifact
hiding up in someone’s attic closet:
a shoddy canvas rotting in the corner,
or a fantasy postcard sent from paradise.
I’ve come home to her
more times than count,
but it’s always the same
a quick boot back out.
Like I give a dam – not,
it’s just a place to rest my leery ass.
Some say it’s a metaphysical
propositional blast of the past, a fake
destination no one ever did believe
existed, nor thought possible or reliable
for justificatory redress of such crimes
as kin will want to do upon each other.
Pines, magnolias, sweet berry pies –
the myth of home we all know so well;
a pipe dream for every sucker born,
a sort of dime…
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