Gone Home

This sprang into existence one day while driving down a certain stretch of I-40 that I know very well.

In my mind the road to Raleigh is always rainy.

I sit at the wheel thermos of coffee

cupped in holder listening to beautiful day by U2

on repeat.

 

It is not a beautiful day.

 

Outside my fogging window smears nothing but dreary grey.

This road slides through mountain mists

like a monstrous snake, fangs retracted

it has no teeth today.

 

I’m leaving home behind again.

 

My parents, old friends, two cats and a kitchen

full of cinnamon and saxophones.

From here it seems an egg nestled in the palm of the Appalachians

warm, but blue and fragile

it has grown too small for my awkward wings.

 

I’m afraid to extend them and risk smashing something.

 

And so I take to open road

bolstered by the bluster wind winding

down and out the mountain

toward my own horizon.