Home

Is this musty mini van

With the boy in the back

Using dollar-store birthday beads

To string a plastic piece

Of his heart

That I’ll wear on my wrist

And the boy in the front seat

(finally ecstatically old enough)

Periodically handing me the rye chips

Out of the Chex mix bag

Because they are my favorite.

So I’ll wear home on my wrist and in my belly.

Home marks me

Like a gang sign.

I’ll be fine

Let it rain, let it shine –

My umbrella and sombrero both

Are all these musty journeys taken together

(all of them, do you hear?)

And the memories

(remember the bouncy-log? remember the creek?

remember the trap door tree fort?)

And the dinner table

Extended with the leaf in the middle

And the getting older

And the opening and closing of the door.

The musty minivan slips slow

Between green hills and a sky that will pour

Soon.

I reach for the handle,

Look down at my wrist,

And pull

(Written May 15, 2022, the day before leaving for 8 weeks in South America)