My apartment is an old house on the hill,
poorly and incompletely refurbished.
From my hall and rickety fire-escape,
I look off over the Davenport skyline,
towards Rockport’s just accross The River.
At night the city fills with orange lights,
Centennial bridge half-lit most nights.
All the old houses in this neighborhood have these same river-facing windows.
The romantic image is that of a wife waiting for a river-boat captain–
to come home.
–home.
But the joke is that it was more like,
a maid waiting to shoo off some suitor at first sign of steam.
[and I’ve never lived this close to the Mississippi,
and I can’t explain it as anything but spiritual.]
I had her in my bed, just the other night.
I held her to my shoulder as she drunkenly admitted things I can’t repeat.
But she had soft skin, and hair that kept flying all over cheeks.
I held her, and told her the truth:
It’s okay.
It’s okay.
It’s okay.
all things I’ve practiced for if you ever need them.
if you ever–
I’ve got twinkling skylines and history drenched floorboards to walk on,
and home,
home is still missing you.
