Home at last--on your avenue, on your deck--
we’ll watch morning patterns shift through shaky skies,
finding friendship in the silences.
We’ll spill stories across the kitchen table:
paint stains, soggy mittens, cigarette butts;
these are the things we’ll tell them about.
We’ll share sweaters and philosophy,
but not Chapstick because we don’t like germs.
Eventually you’ll see that navy blue is not black
and soon I’ll learn to waltz,
so save your tuxedo coat and fancy shoes,
because I’ll be Home soon.