East of Home
A million blue miles
East of what was home,
I found myself in an alley once,
Both its ends invisible,
Hinted at by traffic sounds.
Young men on bikes
And old women with baskets
Drifted by like ghosts.
I caught a look that said,
One of them, even here.
Is there no place left that’s ours?
Full of love, I did my best
To return a look that assured,
I am harmless to you.
You would like me if you knew me.
