Tonight I’m going home.
I’m pumping my arms-
faster is better when porch
and dog and kitchen and mom
await.
Not tomorrow, but a tomorrow
coming,
home won’t be home
anymore,
and I’m not okay.
Home is standing with an ear
to the stairs, an ear to living
room conversations, nose
to the kitchen steam,
and eyes meandering through
to the bow window overlooking
bird feeder and backyard.