GETTING HOME

We may fly fastest home On a broken wing -- The pain a spur onward, The goal a golden door In the near distance -- Because of the hope Or rather keen anticipation Of succor there, a warm hearth, A loaded fridge, a kitchen table and all the accouterments thereupon -- A welcome smile at the door, The dog too attentive, drooling with delight And moreso if you pet his head -- To be taken in thus, Without a question or pointed look, The secret grace of home too rare In the sad old world, Of knowing but dismissing The not important details of the day -- Come on in, they say, Come on in and sit and rest -- You are family, no guest -- Your face alone at this late hour Is a happy turn, and we are blest.