Is full-up on empty factories,
and friendly people never sit
on front porches anymore
to wave as I pass by. I grow
grayer and find it harder
to avoid the city, my bones raw
from the draw of it, I climb
like a slow tick up the long leg
of interstate to travel back
home. They never tell you
at forty-seven you’ll still feel
twenty-two and still repeat
the same mistakes, except those
that raised you and still know
you—tarnished, broken, but true.
The road home is never straight,
but patches of goldenrod burst
like fireworks, they still wave
as I pass them by.
