cincin[nasti].

8 hours on greyhound hell
from one city with a funny sounding c name
to another
speeding down the highway, i'm alone.
going home.

homeward bound to the home i've been
denying they ask me
where i'm from and i say that city in
the midwest where we still
riot in the 21st century
there are a thousand recipes for chili
and jerry springer is our native son.

and 7 hours in i wonder
why i am even going home at all
until we turn the bend in
northern kentucky that i've always considered
to be the most beautiful view and
there's my city at night
glistening gleaming
absolutely stunning
sitting silently,
welcoming its prodigal daughter home.

and i hop off the bus and
fall into my mother's arms and
drive the route back home and
get bowled over by my dog's love and
get kissed on the forehead by daddy and
get put in a full nelson by my little brother and
it's then i know
that no matter how hard i try
or how far i will go i can never
truly distance myself
from home.