Why have I never had a hometown?
a place to roll down my windows and hurdle railroad crossings,
to navigate a Revolutionary War Cemetery and replay battles in my mind,
to face my demons in a storied field of battle
where warrior and romantic lie side-by-side and grow into the tree
from which I will be hanged.
Why have I never felt safe?
no place to sit cross-legged in the middle of an untamed dadelion lawn,
or smite the shifting of the winds as a stench from the Tyson feed
factory invades my used up nostrils,
or lay on an abandoned dock, stretched to the middle of an
equally exiled reservoir,
and smoke a joint under the Georgia summer sun, or the stars, or the end
of the rainbow that leads me to a wife at home.
Why is it that every place I land, the window’s eyes feel empty?
the front doors void of any accent, wreath, or something to make
where the underground utilities insulate the static hum of high-voltage
high-wires that used to sing me to sleep
and children never laugh at fat kids whose families are to poor
to afford them the new videogames,
so he lobs a basketball through a hoop, nailed to a flimsy pine that sways
in the Tyson feed breeze.
When I find it, I’ll know that it’s the right town.
The sun will set into my full bay window, lighting my silhouette holding
a pen, against the empty wall I’ve saved for the achievements of
and the factory’s scent is overdone by fresh yeast rolls
and peach pie a-la-mode and lingering wofts of the sweet perfume
of my horny wife, who really missed me that day,
and I’ll learn to sleep with the midnights runs of endless locomotives,
the tracks I walk when I am angry or scared or scarred,
where I will one day rest in the cemetery of another Revolution.
So you might say, I’ve never had a Hometown because:
I’ve never stayed long enough to care.
I’ve never really cared enough to stay.