Mortal Rounds

Personal Photo

Home is the place where, 
when you have to go there, 
they have to take you in.

Not much of a town.

Empty storefronts.
Faltering boutiques.
Desperate cafes.
Even the bars have fled.
Weeds in every crack
on Main Street.

Another decaying,
forgotten, flyover
patch of dirt.

But here my past is buried.
Ancestors, lovers, friends.

When I walk,
ghosts speak to me,
making me 
feel at home,

knowing I will join them,

in this ground, in my time.