Home

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Home is where the fences are cinder blocks,
radiating heat well into the night.
Home is where the shit on the street
is from ornamental plums,
and not migrating ducks and geese.
Home is knowing where the garlic salt is
in the kitchen.
Home is where your dog is.
Home is waking up to the sun everyday,
10 months out of the year.
Home is walking out to your car,
covered in a thin coat of dust.
Home is moving your joints,
and not hearing them crack,
because humidity.
Every day is a new day.
I have been craving this adventure.
I earned my stripes.
The ride is bumpy, and I’m wearing a helmet.
I got it good. For now.
But sometimes, when you’re feeling so far removed,
when you hear a noise that doesn’t sound right,
you want to be home.

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