You always use the back button
on your phone,
never the home button.
You’re scared of exiting something completely.
You’re scared of leaving things behind.
You’re scared that home will take you far away.
But home was never meant to be something
to run away from.
It isn’t the park down the street
where you played as a kid,
or the hardwood floor you collapse onto
when hours past midnight become
too much to handle.
It’s not the splintered wood and bent nails
that keep the four walls around you standing.
Home doesn’t have an address.
Home never had an address.
Home was always right here with you.
It’s always right here with you.
So when things become too much
and you feel too weak to push forward,
you will learn to push the home button,
and you will find me.
I will be home for you.
I will always be home for you.

Naaman's father
frequented ******
or so his mother said.

Naaman had no idea,
as a kid, what ****** were,
but his mother's tone
of voice and look
gave the impression,
this was not good.

His father never mentioned
the said ******,
never a gave a hint
or clue, so Naaman
just accepted the fact
his father did; what more
could a Jewish kid do?  

There was the woman
who stopped his father
in the street Up West,
gave smile
and whispered words,
looked at Naaman
and walked away,
waggling her slim behind,
rattling keys
from her fingers,
looking back,
then away,
what it was about,
his father didn't say.

Maybe, thought Naaman,
that was the said *****,
but what she did or what
she was for, he wasn't sure.

His mother didn't say,
just glared and froze
her husband out,
or rowed and rowed,
and slammed things down
in the kitchen while cooking,
Naaman just played
with his toys
and pretended
he wasn't looking.

But that dame
in the street
who stopped his father,
her wiggling behind,
her red lips,
big blue eyes,
her keys
and ringed fingers,
maybe she was the *****,
maybe she was the lady
who made
her mother angry,
the one his father frequented
( whatever that might mean),
but to Naaman
she was just a painted lady
who smiled a lot
and whispered soft words
and wagged her behind.

Whatever his mother thought,
Naaman mused,
his father didn't mind.

Benedict came in
from the pumps
at the gas station
having served
the Indian guy
with the Rolls Royce
who gave him a tip.

He put the money in the till
and closed it
and pocketed
the coins of tip.

Miss Billings stood
at the doorway
of the small front office,
hand on her hip,
head to one side.

Benny Boy,
do you think
the men who come in here
fancy me?

I don't know,
Benedict said.

Do you think they'd
like to shaft me?

He looked non-plus,
shrugged his shoulders,
don't know,
he said.

She smiled.
Would you like
to shaft me, Benny Boy?
She did a turn,
hands on hips,
eyes bright open.

Shaft?
He repeated.
What do you mean?

She smiled more,
white teeth showing,
hips swaying.
Well, when that Riley
comes in, he often says,
I could give you
a good rogering.

Do you know
what he means,
Benny Boy?

No,
Benedict said.

It means having ***
with someone, Kid,
having it off.
She laughed.

Would you like that?
I can see it now
in the headlines,
and she made movements
with her finger to suggest
newspaper headlines
in the air.
Boy of 15 shafts
22 year old woman
in back of Bentley
in gas station.

Benedict watched her
as she stood,
hands on hips,
smiling at him.

Well, not to worry, Kid,
because you won't get
the chance,
and she walked off
swaying her hips
in Monroe fashion,
her blonde hair
flowing free,
her white clothed backside
moving side to side
and disappeared
in the back office
to do the accounts.

He stood watching
the door swing shut,
the image of her
still stuck in his mind,
the swaying backside and hips,
the hair flowing blonde and free.

He smiled.
In his bed at night,
between the sheets,
lights out,
moonlight glowing,
he had *** with her,
freely, slowly,
without her knowing.

..                 I am a Heart

                          ~ melting with joy

                              ~ trembling with fear

                       ~ grappling with faith

                                      Adoring of God                ..

Another story Simon tells
of pixies and of wishing wells
of ladies laying down in dells
and princes passing by.