Lonesome & Mad

I feel like I want to go home,
but I am home,
and the cardinal calls out,
lonesome and mad,
from the walnut tree.

The flowers you planted have died,
and now, here, they shiver,
swaying and pedal-bare
as the wind comes through whistling.

Cactus flower blooms in the desert
under the stars,
sprouts from the asphalt
under the cars,
spitting and sputtering.

You know well that I was never
ate by a whale;
my lies are the dead bird
that gives this sad, grim parking lot meaning.

I feel like I want to go home,
but I am home,
and I dream of a kettle drum, booming and wailing
from somewhere far away

and here I will wait by the door
like an old dog
hearing the footsteps of all the strangers
who are just passing by.