the goldenrod cobs under vast expanses of silence
cicadas and quiet air humming around sidewalk greetings
the rhythm of the predictable bounty of backyard tomatoes
and hungry rabbits
the honor system at the vegetable stand down the street
with an intact paint-peeled wooden money box
whose padlock would be long since desecrated in my new city
home hasn't aged the same way my skin, my soul, my eyes have this last decade away
the salt on my lip, that flavor from childhood
just ain't the same anywhere else
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