An Ode to Home

A man driving a white jeep
asked me for my mental road map.
His frustration poured out the hole
of his mouth like invisible molasses.

Are you from around here?
Are you from around here?

I’m not. But, yes.

My hometown feels like water
cupped into my palm, spilling
over the edges. I lose more
than I can drink.

The streets have become a maze
of new stoplights, new landmarks,
burned down houses. People
moving around like beans
in cheap magic tricks.

In my mother’s house,
collectibles and furniture
survive the moves, pictures
of my sister’s wedding day,
of me with a guitar,
still learning how to smile.

I’m not used to it,
being a stranger,
looking at photos of those
who are gone for good,
trading stories like long-lost pen pals.

Two hundred miles away,
my brother is having his first child.

Jay Sizemore dropped out of college and has since sold his soul to corporate America. He still sings in the shower. Sometimes, he writes things down. His work has appeared online and in print with magazines such as Rattle, Prick of the Spindle, DASH, Menacing Hedge, and Still: The Journal. He’s never won any awards. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, home of the death of modern music. His chapbook Father Figures is available on Amazon.

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