Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not,
whether you have a wife, or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. 
Coming home is terribly lonely so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything‘s worst once you’re home. 
You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing, because you did not want to return. 
Coming home is just awful.
And the home-style silence is in clouds  contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect and made from a different material than those you left behind.
You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots.
Seamy suit of clothes, dishrag-ratty worn.
You return home, moon-landed, foreign.
The Earth’s gravitational pull, an effort now redoubled dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders, etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead.
You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of anyway.
You sigh into the onslaught of identical days, one might as well at a time.
The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older.
Nothing moves, but the shifting tides of salt in your body.
You vision blears, you carry your weather with you; the big, big blue whale; a skeletal darkness.
You come back with X-ray vision your eyes have become a hunger.
You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone.
Everything you see now all of it bone.
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2087
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