A day before home

I sit shirtless in Austin
my torso innocent still of the smart
of cold air, wondering if it'll actually make me smarter
again under the comfortingly finite sky
with all the hands that reach into it--
white branch, black branch, building,
the knobby fingers of home.

A day before home I watch no movies
don't even leave the house
wrestle my own body to the floor--
sleep now, sleep. I don't.
My family is singing through the telephone
that hasn't rung. Outside it is Christmas,
the cars empty out from the lot, empty out
from the streets--where have they all gone?
Everyone's at a party without me, in the woods?

I'd have liked to bring all the cookies I won't eat before I leave,
share the leftovers of an exact week I'll never see again. On
Christmas day, shirtless, unplugging the whole apartment,
I make airplanes out of my sleeplessness that bring me again
to a home I left once forever, to which I am always coming back.

posted by Adam at 11:36 PM [edit]