SOUNDVIEW

Where is home, you ask?

in red eyes, camouflaged by sunglasses, taking refuge
in want ads littered with prayers Thanks be to the saints!
and did my morning coffee just toss a wink at me?
in the trains birthed from metro-tunnels like earthworms
emerging from thunderstorms
awashed in an august dusk that hugs the tenement buildings
and So. Bronx steeples.
in the extinction of New York stars
the weekend moon hangs from the midnight gallows, and accessorizes
the werewolves on parade in trafficlight tuxedos
in the static ‘tween FM stations of thought and regret,
where ghosts hang like chalkdust floating, remnants
of passion scribbled & haphazardly wiped clean
from a slate.
in those periodic driftings where in my mind I am again a spry
young fawn lapping up the shallow Clarion, cool and unimposing.
in other words,
I don’t know how to answer your question.