(for Henry)
He walks the land
of the overhanging skyscraper
and the place
of the dying wheat.
His clothes are marked
with the dust of a thousand roads.
And his eyes are scarred
from the battle
that is fought only within.
While untended beard and forgotten hair
spill their threads
upon the pattern of his shoes
He reflects upon
the home that was not a home
and the past
where nothing was started
and nothing was gained.
As he treads one more step
and reaches for that other lost hand,
he settles at last upon a shore
where all may come to rest.
And he reflects upon the fact
that is far easier
to walk in the land of the stranger
than in the house of friends.
When home is one penny less
than the town next door.
Will Mayo
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