The Moving Debate

Maybe I am supposed to go, just not now

In this rush of motivation to flow a mortgage into a mortgage

To on some level prove to her that I am not worthless

I am daring and vibrant like the city I run towards

I am not this plastic blankness of a suburban cliché

Not wanting to be both or me or that or this

I could find rebirth in the smaller confines as if I was closer

Or would make friends with my neighbors in my hermetic routines

I hear the fires of the onions, bell peppers, and celery

Stirring the roux, timing and color to get to that perfect chocolate brown

Unsinged emulsion ready to absorb the flavors of the dish

Basking in the palette of a classical autonomy dancing in New Orleans

I cannot imagine myself living in this two-story forever

Wanting an outlet with hips and a miracle smile

To make me want to talk to a banker and shift residence

Into her, into this, either way with

This is the volley upon the field, grass testing winter’s grip

Seeded in dormancy for a string of breathing midnights

Yoga mats, dodge balls, and poetry reading in the silences

The animal farm and the Chateau D’If channeling protests and prayers

Is this the direction?  Is this the time?

Are these the words?  Who is the woman at the top of the stairs?

The pictures run like a film strip flapping upon my brow

Pictures of what home is reducing in the meditation in the sound

Of last resorts and first responders of hearing the nations gather

In ancestors calling me home

Where I am supposed to be and the timing to confront fear

Of when is enough and where is the bull waiting to gore a body in the street

Eyes blood shot and nervous that a step left will not be retraced

So that standing still is progress

Faith that in this Thanksgiving

The traveling bones will smell home