A stack of CDs, pieces of paper,
Remote control, and me with head in hands:
The scene is set; thoughts begin to taper
And form into something I understand.
Who knows yet where thought leads, or down which roads
My feet will follow? All roads lead to home,
Wherever that is. Not where bomb explodes,
Or people shout, but under the blue dome
Of quiet empty space. Each face is far
Away and getting further still with time,
Just like, way up there, every single star
Recedes toward the edge. My daughter, I’m
Proud to say, goes to university
On Monday. To get there, she needed me.
Fri 29 Sep 2006
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