Home
It looks like home,
that pint size village
in the heart of Jersey,
teased hair and the Sopranos are so thick with memories,
that even the Robins are fatter.
It feels like home,
riding my bike on flat streets,
easy as pie to pedal
as the timely fall foliage creates it's own
fire.
It smells like home,
the grease filled diners
on the routes next to the interstate,
lure in weary travelers,
french fries
drowning in gravy that's thick as soup,
erodes resistance to caloric intake.
It sounds like home,
the locusts that appear after a decade,
their buzz like construction of a fairy kingdom,
reflecting the slow breath of the locals,
who secured their plots in the local graveyard
decades before the real estate boom.
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