Coming Home
Holidays with friends and family three hundred miles from our home. Strange beds, familiar faces, Heading home in the rain on that same stretch of I-90 upstate and over. All day rain. Every farmers field is full of fog drifting over snow melting into tan straw and brown mud.
starbucks doubleshot
old blues on the radio
stoned on truck spray
There's no getting home any quicker than normal. It always ends the same, Eighty, untill you get behind the one truck passing the other at 71. It all averages out to four and a half hours door-to-door. Our brain always tries to make a change, alter the facts, influence the outcome. Still, rain falls down, not up. We come in right on time.
rain drapes the house
in the same gray as the road
dog in the window
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