I want to go home.
I long to go to
the Metropolitan
Museum of Art
and stand in one
of the period rooms
and pretend to be
someone else.
I miss clear, stinging
Autumn mornings,
wearing sweaters
scarves and heavy shoes,
and eating a sharp
piece of cheddar
and a thin slice of a Winesap.
I would love to bundle up
under a blanket, next to the fire
and watch
silver-dollar-sized snowflakes
on a gray January morning.
I want to smell mud
and the newness
of those first Spring days,
when you know
you've made it
through yet another winter.
After seeing a musical,
eating dirty water dogs
bought from a street vendor,
who was friendly
in that New York cranky way,
would be just fine.
I want to be anonymous.
Never having to explain
why I don't wear make-up
or go to church.
I want to go home.