Going Home


You go back to the place you grew up
and find it’s changed
houses and bars that are no more
the ones still standing,  unrecognizable

and you see her now,
the teen beauty of your youthful dreams
a cocktail waitress at the local
chain chicken wing joint

and the jock wide receiver
a depressed, pot smoking auto mechanic
once a smash hit
on the small town party scene

remembering the pranks
the ritual, the desecration
hallucinogenic drug induced fiascos
the beautiful music that came from her mouth

that  tender mouth;
her eyes look at you
with the slightest hint of recognition
perhaps remembering the bon fires and drunk driving

before her kids, before divorce
before she worried about her weight.
her drinking, her credit cards
falling asleep alone with a fan blowing on her face

you moved away
the point of departure no longer matters
You’re still invisible to her in the flashing neon outside the restaurant
just as you were then.




About toritto

I was born during year four of the reign of Emperor Tiberius Claudius on the outskirts of the empire in Brooklyn. I married my high school sweetheart, the girl I took to the prom and we were together for forty years until her passing in 2004. We had four kids together and buried two together. I had a successful career in Corporate America (never got rich but made a living) and traveled the world. I am currently retired in the Tampa Bay metro area and live alone. One of my daughters is close by and one within a morning’s drive. They call their pops everyday. I try to write poetry (not very well), and about family. Occasionally I will try a historical piece relating to politics. :-)
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6 Responses to Going Home

  1. Reblogged this on By the Mighty Mumford and commented:


  2. sojourner says:

    How does it go? “You can never go home again”


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