coming home
coming home
in the late autumn cool a worn seabag bravely shouldered
decked out in faded dungarees and heavy steel toed boots
the white cap jauntily a-skewed in the non regulation style
stepping on the platform looking for familiar friendly faces
seeing none i walked through the station and out the door
there waiting smoking is my father in his battered old truck
not a man of wasted efforts nor visible emotions in his eyes
knowing now i knew what he had learned in the years past
the engine roared unheard in his deafness shifting the gears
through the middle of town almost unchanged but forgotten
pointing out the small things some were new and some gone
all the way to the hospital which still stood so silently same
a few months later my mother died holding her each thought
she waited across the years until i had at last returned home
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