Square One

There is something very special about the little house GPS icon. The "Go Home" button. It's comforting in a 21st Century way. No matter where you are, in one tap, you can go home.

The net of things that bring me comfort in these days of nos and missed attempts at improv sets: the Lake Michigan trail, knowing the kids on the other side of that water are in swimsuits at my childhood place, reading S on the sofa, Bisque on the phone and I can imagine him there in that room with the tan carpet and the fan whirring, scooping the almond butter out the jar with a spoon. I stand across the train platform from two classmates headed north while I wait for southbound. It's too far to talk. I watch them bond and feel like Sandra Bullock grabbing onto dumb handles. Who will know me in this wide world!? Rain pitters, like, on cue. But then in a blitzkrieg of texts with my best friend, I am a real boy again! Filled up like a little balloon. Hope floats.

There's a dry gust up on the eleventh floor of the building, the window is half open. Who knows what flies in. But "nothing can be a parasite to you," I listen to the podcast at 5 AM when I have woken up sluggish and out of sorts. I play it loud plugged into the wall across the dark room. I fall sleep free and awake in clear cool light. Go home. Square one.

South Carolina creperie.

Square one, my slate is clear.
Rest your head on me, my dear.
It took a world of trouble, took a world of tears.
It took a long time to get back here.