welcome

when the bus rolls in
diesel choking the air
in a screech of smoke and brakes,
don’t be afraid.
the homeless man
staring at you
from under the broken lamp post
only wants a refill,
and it’s too humid to move.

we have no quaint
cobbled lanes, as I remember
from my grandmother’s town,
but potholes
shaped by rain and aquifer
will rattle your taxi
as you make your way north,
to my house.
there’s a special one
that once stopped our car
just before the river—
we avoid it now,
slipping right to hug the sidewalk.

our home is small,
and don’t worry--we’ve only
been burglarized once.
it’s our haven, spelled
against the city.
a crepe myrtle dances its pink
blossoms, and the light
in the window
is hot food and a warm bed
and music shining in the air.
in the back, I sit on the couch
with a laptop and a poem.
I’m waiting for you.

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