When I am home

I am looking forward to the smoky back-garden haze,

And fog drifting over the horizon in winter.

Home is where I used to hang out of my window on the bluest of moon nights

And shuffle with Chuck Berry and Johnny Cash.

Winter is always the ripest, best, most elegant time of year

Because the ferns all sing sweetly in the breeze

And the rustle of a middle-class life echoes through the town.

Mornings are clad in grey clouds, making Gilmore Girls re-runs oh so inviting,

Sunlight peaks through, emerging from the sky’s womb,

At around 2 o’clock.

This is home to me. I’ve been away for 3 years

And now I’m desperate to find that shelter again.

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