Going Home

Slip slowly past the run down bar

Past the street of collector cars

To the place where the painted bench sits

To the house where I lived

 

There’s the street that I ran down

The night I slept out on the ground

Where I fell and skinned my knee

The sound of wind through the trees

 

Where I hid to dry my eyes

How I danced to catch fireflies

The ring of wind chimes in the air

The smell of lemon everywhere

 

There’s a birch out front that we’d pose near

For pictures every year

One garden is full of pine trees

And the other choked with weeds

 

The counters were higher up then.

I remember climbing up on them

They were my largest obstacle to overcome

Back when I was young

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