Irony in that

December 20, 2006 at 6:58 am 1 comment

home sweet home.

Three hundered sixty miles West of Omaha
and I’ve become irritable
in the Southern Bluffs of Nebraska.
I’d not even seen a sign.
I phoned someone to ask about time zones
and the arbitrary lines that never exist?
And I thought of a house

on a flat road
with miles of land,
on land that is wavering
like a flag,
frozen in one wave, literally.

And the house is on one such line
and the father wakes at seven.
His children rise at the same time,
only its eight.
And the wife goes to church at ten,
an hour after everyone else
has been there for an hour.

And each year they run
from the living room to the kitchen
and feel the New Year twice.
And they grow tired and move away
and some other family comes in,
charmed and laughing,

And I could make them say no,
to walk away,
sidestepping years of anger
and a tiring joke.

And their story ends quickly,
because my eyes have moved beyond
the house I took for theirs.

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Entry filed under: Uncategorized.

I wrote this two days ago been a while since I rapped ya

1 Comment Add your own

  • 1. Dad  |  February 2, 2007 at 3:39 pm

    As the “someone” you called about time zones, I’d like to say I like this poem — and the rest, too. Pops.

    Reply

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