I walk through towns that have forgotten me.
Sidewalks broken and twisted,
windows cracked, doors closed,
footsteps echoing into empty neon-lit alleys.
It smells of loneliness,
tastes sharp—like hot wind
scraping a dry throat.
Rivers ran bronze in dawn’s early light,
carrying years I’d almost forgotten,
and monsters lurking deep.
Wind shifted the prairie grass
and my thoughts,
fallen signs I had missed,
lost, ignored.
I slept beneath stars with no names,
in fields of desolation,
counting nights
with only the moon and trees as witnesses.
I listened to the oaks and pines
tell stories,
as if they were talking
to children.
A vagabond in exile,
in the lonely decades of travel,
I wondered if it was more than I could bear,
nights talking to shadows.
The sun dripped—
base and debauched.
***** and regret,
miles stretched beneath my worn-out penny loafers.
Then, like an oasis in the desert,
Nod appeared dimly on the horizon,
rose quietly
from the far-off vapor.
The air there held something familiar.
Not the streets, not the buildings, not the walls,
but the patience of a place that waits,
already knowing me
before I arrived.
There were other sojourners,
vagabonds,
humans looking for a fresh start,
another chance at life.
I stepped inside the city gates
without knocking or announcing myself.
I knew I belonged.
Hands empty,
heart full,
hope sitting on a table
like a sparrow
eating a crust of bread.
The world outside blurred
into a nebulous fog,
and the silence
was beautiful.