On Home and Heart

March 19, 2010

Home sticks in clods between the ridges of motorcycle wheels,
But our faithful ride is tired, worn from our escapist fantasies,
We are quiet,
Laying side by side in an abandoned gas station
Under flickering city light,
Gravel digging into our shoulders and our backs and our knees.
We smell like rain and gasoline,
Comforting in it’s simplicity.

You are new to me, yet you are peace to me,
A piece of me, a slice of what if feels like to be warm and safe
If even for a moment.
You are worn leather
Every crack like the creases of a rough, callused hand,
Each telling a story.

So I tell you a story:
How lies and deceit can be triumphed over the smell of coffee in the morning,
The view of snow-tipped velvet mountains can make you feel pure again,
I tell you about our city,
How the lake is a vast, dark ocean, surrounded by the rush of street-life.
How the Ferris Wheel turns like the gears in your head,
even as icicles drape every spoke.
I tell you how similar they are,
Those mountains and this city,
And that when you listen just right,
In that moment before the dawn breaking,
For a second everything is absolutely
Still.

So we say a prayer for our faithful ride,
Let the gravel in our skin feel alive.
And, if even for just this day,
The city is ours.

All rights reserved. This is not yours.

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