Sunday, May 20, 2007

Let's Take the House Out, Laura

"I have never been home," hmmf,
"My tats don't trace the sum,
I have never been home,
Not when I was busy being born
between another man's legs,
Not when I was rushed off to school
while I's still eatin' my eggs,
Not when I was blitzed off my gourd
with all of my friends,
Not when the throbbing woke me in
the morning to thoughts of
'Whew! Maybe I'm dead!'
Not when, stuck at the light, it finally
hit me that maybe she's right,

Nope, I have never been home

Not when I fell asleep with my finger
on your doorbell beggin'
'let me in',
(Came close when you draped my arm
around your neck and said
'let me in'),
Not when I'd reached my point
with you the European,
me the American, so I said
'let me in',
Not when you rushin' to catch up to me,
me rushin' to catch up to you,
kept us both so thin,
Not on the day after St. Paddy's
when we could only order in
and we called up Gary and Eva and said
'Please bring gin
and quarters and pens for tallying',
Not passing through the tunnel underneath the Hudson,
regardless of which side Manhattan's on,
Not on the seaside in Cupra Marittima
wondering if it was friend or foe
that mirrored me across the Adriatic
in Dalmatia (I flexed my pecks just in case),
Not when I played hooky to masterbate
and fixate on the occupier of my seat in
absentia (be it Cynthia or just space),

I am telling you, I have never been home

Certainly not when I found out
St. Laura was a martyr against the
Americans in the War of 1812,
Especially not when, on my 33rd birthday,
I plucked this nugget of information
off a Montreal shelf,
Not -- "
"Yet, I have never left
Despite the fifths we shared
that we called sevenths of Proust,
At the eastern frontier of the bi-way
Forty Duece,
Renamed for the day
'Mulberry Street by Dr. Suess',
While across the river, above a pier,
we watched a swallow never roost,
I was home then," hmmf,
"and you do not have tatoos."

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