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.