It seems now that I never
belonged
in high-top lace-up shoes
on dirt
roads beside dusty sumac
leaves
and tall, bristling
blackberry canes
even as I walk those same
roads
in the sepia images of
memory
I have walked so many
streets of style
and poise, in garments
flowing with the honors
of the tall and sun-lit
towers
pennants flying with the
colors
of the wars of minds and
bowels
walked with steady gaze
and steady gait
Why now these same dirt
roads of youth
that took me toward the
small town lights
and small town smells and
small town hopes
the dusty panes and lusty
pangs of small town truth?
Is this where I belonged
all along
this place of
non-belonging?
John Robert McFarland
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