I have traveled east again
only miles from where you
learned to walk.
how that makes any sense
i will never understand.
this is after all
your home, not mine.
you are akin to cornfields
and i have spend most
of my life leaning
restless against walls made
of ether and smog.
as the packed snow and ice pushes
against the thighs of the Market Street Bridge
i realize just how far from home a foolish
heart can lead a man.
how even mighty
rivers have no say in
what chooses to ride on
their snaking backs.