Prone to Wander

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PRONE TO WANDER


Legs stuck to Chevy leather

in our melting cargo shorts, 

and mom had made us wear


our luminescent tee-shirts

in case her State Fair night-

mares actualized. Remember, 


she would say, and we’d recite

the Straying Child’s Creed like 4

confessing monks, minds heavy


not with sin but with a deep-

fried turkey leg. Don’t move,

and you’ll return to us, we’d 


faithfully repeat, but really not

till now did I come to appreciate

the doctrine. Lord, I’m staying put


exactly where I left You last—

     the little yellow house on 

                         Shawnee Trail. I'll be out front.

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