More than 40 years
have spun by me like
a drunk hurricane.
I have spent my life
going here, doing there
a homeless mind.
Now, I ache for
my land,
the unswum lakes and
fields of pine.
Two oceans away
gray hairs sprout on
my inflated head,
the travels only kept
me dizzy, busy.
I skipped between continents,
got As and gave As.
Spoke to applauding audiences
and slept in Hyatts on satin sheets.
What for?
Better I stayed home
and chopped wood.