My parents stopped taking care of the lawn;
not enough time or money.
(Presidents these days
are afraid to be Great, you see.)

And I, like you,
eventually ran home.
I do not think
our fates are the same.

I picture your body
sprawled on the floor
of that vintage trailer you just bought,
Vacant.

I picture your pale eyes
half-open looking Oblivion in the face,
and your lips
a washed-out used-up color.

I picture you
lost and done
amidst redwood forests
and fields of Maryjane.

I could never do it.
But then, Home
always meant more to me
and you were always the brave one.

06/26/2008

Author's Note: For Maya, R.I.P.

Posted on 06/26/2008
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