It’s already next week, and I don’t know
what happened to the last one. Routine fanned
wings that never settled onto road bumps,
that never turned to look behind or feel
the call of nostalgia. I want to heed
a call to protest, sure, but also want
to note time full before it passes on,
want images to pull me back to smiles
or tears, relief or gratitude that time was
and we lived it together. No matter how
homeless I am today, I want to know
a homesickness enough for empathy.
I do, I do, if once I touch the ground
find love I lost, still inside safe and sound.