Home is Never Where You Left It

Oregon plates, thirteen
fourteen years, the cement
still wet. This life
stars a warrior home from war,
or a drifter ringing doorbells
shouting Dad! Dad!
after he’d gone down the Clackamas
to Bend or Tigard.
Overseer-gray sky,
wires strumming overhead
and we are the sound,
the canvas pant, duffle bag—
He has the efficient haircut
of a former hippie
or local news cameraman
back from the failures
his father warned him about,
the lush trees growing in the median,
thirteen fourteen years away
in a foster-gray raincoat boat,
and I worry I’m trying too hard,
the only road not under construction—
Who can I rely on to advise me?
Things I didn’t notice the first time:
Indian motorcycle peeling out,
he rings once only before getting frustrated,
458-STM license plate
the area code and initials of the director.
All symbolism means something,
a house can be blonde
then turn dystopia-gray
when you try to break in,
like aging under a volcano,
flowerboxes built into the sidewalk,
or July turning into November.
The window disappears
but he can suddenly teleport into fields
with his eyes, undeveloped
commercial land built to suit,
a neat trick, but he can’t go home,
can’t go back, it’s no place
and it’s never the same. Home
means the mountains are always east.