Pilgrimage Home

Asphalt stretches like a beach-

Moonlight across an ocean of ebony.

The heavy thump, thumping of the tires

on the perfectly worn path

from thousands of tires before me

adds a rhythm to my pace.

I know this route so well I could blink

—miles could pass like half-glanced

apparitions in a foggy mirror.

I want to go home.

My eyes water, not from anticipation,

but from the air conditioner’s

chilly reminder to stay awake.

Radio shuffles to every station

looking for a home that welcomes

heavy bass licks, hard downbeats,

gravelly voices.

My foot is cramping,

forced to keep the same

position for a lifetime

of suspended stillness.

I want to be home.

Oh, to inhale the air of childhood,

the faint hint of potpourri,

cornbread, and greens.

Clanking pans, window units,

and Andy Griffith proclaim

my origins.

Sufficient enough a daydream

to keep the portals of my soul

attentive.

Let me be home.

How long now ‘til the humming stops,

the crick in my neck loosens,

the blood rushes back to my butt-bone

and the black ocean ebbs to a halt?

The break peddle melts under my foot,

heavy and assured of its next stop.

Turning the corner between statuesque pines,

headlights catch an unsuspecting squirrel

scurrying away with pecans freshly fallen.

A glimmering gray roof bounces

lunar glow toward the lake,

echoing on the hood.

Screeching gears, parking brake.

The key releases.

The cricket’s concerto

welcomes me.

I am finally home.