Home

Home is tomato sauce from mom’s

pepperoni rolls that no one registers

enough to tell me I’ve something on

my face, stuck in my beard

the smell of her baking wafts

like an opiate cloud that lingers

in labored expressions on the pugs

who will always know their needs

without the muddling of articulation

or ability that leads the deep longing of

their bones to allay the hunger in their hearts.

We all run from the cradle with

every ounce of each unspent day

disappearing as noticeable

as

afternoon

light.

At the first of our twilights we strain

our necks mid-flight, stumbling with

the pacing pack to see like revelation that

everyone is still alive, the smell of home

wafting even into a frozen garage

where there’s just enough light to see

that it’s while we race for the

unquestionable prizes that

unconquerable time

runs

down

and

dies.