They say that home is where the artist
goes to attach his head back to his shoulders,
to keep from floating too far from the path,
the past, the mall, the movie theater, back row,
corner, where he first took Are you nervous?
to the next level, impeded by so much denim—
What if the zipper went that much further?
—taking the moment to appreciate idioms,
the fact that pants were to be worn by men,
until another girl, a little blonde, kissed him
as the Scorpion clicked, they in the front seat,
Up, up, slowing, crawling toward the peak,
each click making them quake, nervous,
shivering in the white July sun, as if chilled
to the core, surrounded by all that blue,
the highest point before the clicking stopped,
and on the way down, she grabbed his arm,
pinching, hoping to silence his screaming.
She laughed, of course, and she teased him,
But it turns out he liked that; it pleased him,
like years later, with wheels of his own,
by the old soccer fields, where thick trees
shield sinning teenagers from streetlights,
and sirens, That was another car somewhere,
not a cop, no reason to stop, taking too long
to find that the headlights can burn holes
in the leaf and vine entwined veil, revealing
rebellion barely worth its vowels, he thinks,
until the next Friday night, watching Wheel—
with his mother while she does crosswords—
vowing, via text, not to get caught next time,
but preparedness only stretches so far,
and the whole thing is a waste if it breaks,
unless flung to the side, It’ll be all right,
a bullet in the chamber, this much he figured,
spun it, shut it, and dropped the hammer.
I got out, OK? but tears outweigh words,
and not just because water is denser than air,
or because a solid can render each of them
irrelevant, but because instincts are to reason
what going home is to the unchecked ego.