What takes a toll
will plank the walk home,
will fill the bowl of cherry pits.
We miss our homes
and are wary of Kalypso.
Even gods are
starry-eyed for avenues
they know. They go
from deity to bull
if conversion gets them home,
because Olympus is
a congress and as foggy.
Telemachus is back at home,
fussing with the sitter
less and less, riled
over other things
than us, groggy with
the littler waits and labors.
Now the neighbors muss
his hair. Yes, we miss our home,
have gone through hell,
in fact, to get there.
No comments:
Post a Comment