Pulling In

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PULLING IN


Remember the turn that woke 

something in us to say we were 


almost home? Is this the same ache 

as late September, the same, familiar door 


abandoned train-tracks whisper towards? 

And what about woodsmoke, mist 


over the cow pond, words? Is all of it 

just pebbles on the one, gravel 


drive? I’ve been on this road 

long enough to know not to ask 


if we’re there yet, but no one can stop 

the signs from saying we're getting closer. 


And you, behind the wheel up there,  

face flickering in and out 


of our blurry sight in the dim light 

of street lamps, your occasional whispers 


veiled behind the gritty static of AM

radio, just know that I’m half-awake


back here and can’t walk straight, 

so you’ll absolutely need to carry me in.


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