Storm Shelters

I left at sixteen slamming the front door, I returned at seventy-four, gently pushing against rusted hinges. I won't say I took a long road. I'll not wail of the shortness of it. It was just a road, one that walked me, flew me, rode me tramped over me took me high as low can go. I'm not gonna say I am at the end of it, I am just back and only now entering a house once left suspecting that all storm shelters were the same.