good talks with the saint of 'back home'
my feet have been broken with pain of blisters, and you mention how the trees must look here in the fall as we pass by that elementary school - closed for summer.
the weather is comfortable here, in your shadow, bumping over cracks and pebbles as we creep down the sidewalk.
but this is how our conversations are, old walks and towing each other along from time to time.
they're a security, a palpable flesh to abstruse thoughts - worked over until unrecognizable.
you tell me simple things - the kind i often forget - such as "don't do that." if only because it hurts. i nod in agreement. you're right, you know.
when i've been out too long and too far, bruises on my shins and dirt under my nails and exhausted with running, you do me the favor of calling me home and give me a good night's sleep.
sometimes, i call you too, and we can find the low branches to sit on while we make crass jokes and drink cheap beer in the air that's only around this time of year.
and i'll pray to you, you know, for the slight of a texas drawl, for the appreciation of detail, for the eventual and awaited welcome home, once i find my way - little wagon or no.
