NPM 11

(Prose, Dad, Hawk, and Cayber, front porching [it’s a verb])

I didn’t post any poem yesterday because I was too busy being enthralled by people in airports and baggage claims and car rental kiosks and hellos and hugs and settling in and whatnot. I did fall asleep last night trying to think up some notions, some general ideas for a poem, but I kept singing a specific song to myself instead. So I’m going to post that today.

There’s more to the song, FYI. This is just the part that’s stuck in my head.

O.A.R.’s “I Feel Home

There are few things pure in this world anymore and home is one of the few.
We’d have a drink outside, maybe run and hide if we saw a couple men in blue.
But to me, it’s so damn easy to see that your people are the people at home.
Well I’ve been away but now I’m back today and there ain’t a place I’d rather go.

I feel home when I see the faces that remember my own.
I feel home when I’m chillin’ outside with the people I know.
I feel home, and that’s just what I feel.
Cause home, to me, is reality and all I need is something real.

Sometimes, someone has already said it.


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