/ On the Phone, Mother Urging
Three days ago, mother phones, saying
“Come home soon, I’ll cook country chicken.”
My heart’s already there,
packing, arranging, leaving messages,
all seen by you.
Forty years in the affairs of men —
waters ebb, stones appear.
I tried once for love, again for friendship.
I steer around obstacles,
the edges of the city slipping past,
grimy, jumbled. The horizon soon in sight,
doubts vanish with the city’s murky air,
hillocks and brief groves loom up like memory.
Home. Father at rest beneath the skull-shaped hill,
too late to redeem my mutinous youth.
Before bed I pull the big door open,
suddenly at peace, eyes full of stars.
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