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.
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