Homecoming

Homecoming

When we first arrived

at the old barnyard house,

he said “I wonder if my childhood home

is falling apart this way?”


The salesman said,

“Some of the buildings ‘round here had corners cut,

but we’ve fixed them up just fine.”


The diner’s chef

isn’t the little mouse

she seems to be.

She’s the town’s angel

but her mind’s filled with doubt.


“So many people went missing,” they said,

“so many never came back.”


There’s a museum of trinkets

lined up so neat,

covered in layers of dust.

Most of them are little lies,

tended by a woman

whose eyes say that she died

ten or so years ago.


“Surely you know the things that you keep

are nothing but cons,” I tried,

“so why display them with pride?”


“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do

to sleep in her bed at night.”


“The buildings are old,” the mayor said,

“but they’ll fend off the cold at night.

Just don’t wander far—

there’s old tunnels out there

but no one knows quite where they lie.”


“So many people went missing,” they said,

“so many never came back.”


“Some of the buildings had corners cut,

but we’ve fixed them up just fine.”


“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do

to wake up at the end of the night.”


“I wonder if my childhood home is falling apart,”

he said, “into the tunnels below.”