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.