“Coming Home”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

Last curve before coming home

On a Saturday night, alone

Down a rural road, south of Lake Erie

Hard right at the four-way stop

Skidding slightly on rain-soaked blacktop

Pulse pumping with anticipation

Knowing that soon, I’ll be deep in a cold swim

A bottle of brew from the refrigerator

Until fatigue and frolic knock me out, a bit later

That’s the routine I seek

I’ve been stuck at work all week

Doing things that others might consider a chore

Managing a grocery store

Life often gets in the way, I’ve been told

When the careening arc of a career intersects with panning for gold

Full pockets and a broken heart

Praying that my truck battery has one more start

That’ll get me to town

A district of notable renown

Run like a carnival on the shore of that blue mass

Waves lapping the sand under a moonlight hourglass

I remember once, a dozen years ago

Dancing with my second wife, gliding champagne slow

We somehow slipped onto the beach, unnoticed

And capriciously had our fanciful tryst

She and that mood of making love are long gone

But the essence of loss lingers on

A twinkle of starlight that teases me as I drive

Making up for that companionship, deprived

Straight across the eastern flank, and county line marked

Until I pull in my driveway, and sit in the dark

Ripping a round out of a 12-pack

Dribbling beer over my work shirt and slacks

Up the sidewalk, stepping cautiously around reflections of the lunar orb

Tasting droplets that my clothes did not absorb

Each tickle on the tongue

Reminds me that this day is done

Home on an electric range

A sweet abode, paid for with chump change

My kingdom come

Held together with duct tape and bubblegum

Vinyl-sided and sometimes, derided

By friends who can afford a better perch

Those gifted with a more reasonable worth

I just zip up my jacket when the storms get loud

In a place like this, self-pity isn’t allowed

Just a shoulder put to the wheel

Hardwood stocks, and stainless steel

And maybe a secret kiss in the shadows

Depending on which way the wind blows

If I can see her face, yet

In this age of things I’d rather forget

Standing at the front door, aimlessly thinking

That having not yet turned the key, but here I am drinking

My shame, concealed

By the late hour, and a neighborhood brought in on wheels

Guilt is erased

I rub the beard stubble on my face

Bump against the entryway plank

Until it swings freely, musty and rank

Scrunching stale carpet strands

A residue of motor oil still on my hands

From a quick check before this journey awoke

Now I’m here at last, a solitary bloke

Free for the overnight

About to partake of my savory delight

Listen to the insect horde

Chirp out melodies that the pilgrims must have adored

While in their cabins and tents

Civilizing the outback of a frontier-for-rent

Divided into long plots of concrete, and strips of green

A mobile-home oasis where poor kids dream

Of someday living large, in an upscale tower

Where boozers and vagrants get paid by the hour

To model for art students in need of imagination

They took the RTA from Cleveland station

A longer ride than mine

Coming home from South Broadway, after working overtime

Good God, give me rest, absolution in the moment

A hand-up to touch the hem of your garment

Or failing that, to pop the top on a beverage from the icebox

Now that I’ve finished learning lessons at the school of hard knocks

Sunset holds sway at last

As the scripture said, “This too shall pass”