You know the subject.
RETURN
It wasn't as if you left your house in order:
hell in a handcart would be more appropriate,
holding your headache in your hands through the stampede,
tasting fear and sorrow from you balcony - alone.
And all for what? A moment's peace, a last regret?
Necessity pounding down your door, invention
all but lost in the melee of bright young minds: chaos.
Was there a moment - your hand trembled on the switch,
your teeth set themselves on edge against your actions?
Did your life flash before your eyes?
....................................................Was it worth it?
And now your suit is pressed, your tie neatly ironed
as your stand, butleresque to welcome home your friends,
can you feel that tremor wrack your fingertips again?
For, no matter how many times your doorbell rings
and friendly laughter leaves you giddy with relief
the truth still tightens up your eyes with fear or guilt:
that the waiter never comes before he's ready,
that the taxman never goes before he's done,
and that nobody
........................but nobody ever (ever!)
comes home.
Welcome.
