a poem a day for a year #189

Going home means things fall away. I can feel my shoulders dropping down. There is not much to be stressed about in the hazy summer stream of a small town. Hours drip by. People talk like honey. There was witchcraft last night because I could have sworn I was eighteen again under the moon, under the sky that draped over the parking lot of the Amvets. It could have been the canned beer or the heat, but I felt like a time traveler. I left a note for myself in the future when I traced the word home with my finger on the window of a dusty Camaro. I gathered stories for another day.