My photograph of the Bellagio Fountains

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,
                      ten 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.
laurel

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This tiny – but mighty – podcast celebrates the aural delivery of the written word. My goal is to showcase emerging voices representing their communities and chat with industry folks to show us how to break through and become published poets and authors.

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