Home Wrecker 

I imagine how it will be, these
twenty long years after the last crunch 
of tires over gravel at my old home, 
foot reaching out of the car, 
flame-topped hedge to my right, 
lilies still imitating the sun out back.

I picture my father in his garden, 
tending marigolds to chase away bugs
from fresh corn and beans.
Mother, in the kitchen, sweats
over asparagus casserole, fried chicken, 
cornbread crisping gold in the oven. 
My aunt, dressed in her best robe,
damaged heart beating faster,
listens for the slap of our car door.

They're here, she cries.

I blink and daydreams vaporize
into warm Carolina air. 
Strangers inhabit this house now, unaware 
that they tread in footsteps so casually 
erased by that whore bastard time.



Pris Campbell
©2009

Published in Heavy Bear (with different line breaks) 2009





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