Tonight, I am itinerant,

and though now stiller than I’ve

ever been, I walk — no, fly —

beyond. But what

of returning?

Where to, when my tracks confuse sense, confound

logic. Where I have been,

there I am. But

always, I complain.

Why speak of homesickness

when clean, warm sheets wait for me?

Why speak of restlessness

when food, cheap and steaming

fills my belly

and my socks wait for me

soft and undirtied?

Surely she would be

the luckiest of women —

she who missed

but was never waiting for.