Homecoming
Restless. My anticipation
is worn into the floor.
Six months away from home--exposed
to torrential floods--exposed
to the naked hatred that flies
from the barrels of rusty AK-47's.
And no word for weeks.
No creased envelope splattered
with mud and your intense script.
No letter to bring me
your tales of an exotic land.
And the violence.
Has it claimed you too?
Have you been lost
within the sights of a rifle
held in the steady hands
of a foreign face
in a foreign land that struggles
against you instead of the oppression
that breeds this violence?
The doorbell rings--
enticed by the practiced finger
of a man in a stiff uniform.
I open the door--revealing
his solemn face. HIs left hand
clutches a folded piece of paper
so tightly it is shaking.
He stares blankly at his shoes
as he offers me his hand.
I don't want to take it
when it's offered. I don't want
to read the words that are
coldly typeset on the page. I don't
have to. I already know
what it says. You're coming home.
Still under construction. Has some weak lines that I'm tweaking.
