When I get lost 
on my way back home
I wander the streets I’ve lived
to see who’s living now,
since even thinking 
hard as I might,
I can’t recall
who was before.
 
I drive to a place 
I could ill afford--
slate roof, chimney pots,
forbidding turrets overlook the street,
but with a homey, lived-in look--
blinds somewhat askew,
half-timbers needing paint, 
the lawn dug up in places
that never had a hole.  
 
Drunk on hope,
I knock on a door 
that with some luck might open up
to a world of well-worn lives, 
comfortable faces. 
I could welcome myself.
Make myself at home.
Take off my shoes
and skate across the floor.
 
I wait a while
in this dream of home 
before I recall who I am, 
and not, and quickly turn to go--
which quells the neighbors’ consternation,
quiets the dog who had been barking,
eases the hopes and fears
of the child peeking through the blinds.
 
Hung over on regret, 
I stumble to the curb,
suspicion fully restored:
my life is not about to change
no matter where I go--
random houses,
the place I call home, 
or anywhere I’ve ever dreamed or known.
 
I’m only somewhat heartened
when the postman hands me the mail,
asks how I’ve been
and where in Hell 
I’ve been hiding.

From the day she was born, we knew 
this would happen—
and kind of figured 
that might happen, too. 
It even made us smile in anticipation,
as if life might truly be an adventure—
though it’s not always what we believe, 
it’s what we want to teach her. 
Sure, there’d be the teething, the testing,
the travail of long division, 
apartments without heat, 
cold floors of unkindness,
plenty of tears—friends moving away, break-ups,
dishonesty in those we’d trusted.
Maybe even losing a job unjustly—
so much might happen 
that demands recourse
where there finally is none.
What’s sort of true: 
life’s as sad as we make it, 
and as happy too. 
Humans will do evil things, 
from indifference or intent—
and still we move on.
It’s in the moving—
and doing what we know is right, 
that just might be enough.