Coming Home by C.B.

So...we are coming home. But why?
The September night chill
Sends us cold and fear,
Bouncing through the barren land.
Dark and alone.
Off of the empty lightless prarie,
Off of the small city streets,
And out of the frozen hearts of the people.
Your blue eyes wide,
You fiddle with the radio,
Irritated at the crap that you find.
We have left top forty,
We have left the sun,
We have left the lights,
We have left the fun,
But most of all we have left society.
Your hand holds mine as you turn
to look at nothing.
Every mile tells us that we will be trapped,
With no art.
Worse than any rural hell
that we could have imagined.
Uncaring faces staring at us from these streets of ours.
Memories of abuse and craziness,
Mine and yours,
And the cruelty of this town's people
day, after day, after day.
These are not people---
they are stale demons,
working in the same places year after year,
never seeing anything new,
never learning to care.
These do not accept change,
and they do not accept difference.
So what are we doing here?

I turn on the lights, as our kids run
around this 450 dollar house.
Putting down the bags
a twinke in your eye as you come in
carrying a box from the car.
"Look baby....the neighbors left us
our complimentary white sheets and hood,"
you laugh.
And we both smile......on the outside.