Homecoming

You are late. You are not.
Call this hour what you want.
Either way, you must be on time.

This is how it has always felt
when you know you have come home.
It’s been too long, or not nearly long enough.

It was just long enough for you
to miss the taste of this tap water.
To have forgotten how old the pipes are

in this city, in this place.
You were thirsty enough to hope
rust and scale could quench your thirst.

One gulp from the same old tumbler
you’ve always used, taken down
from the faded cabinet where it rests

between visits, is enough
for you, this time. Rinse 
the glass, turn your back,

turn the knob, and go back
to the road. To wherever
is next.

Perhaps this is the last time
you will ever come home. Perhaps not.
You don’t get to know

now. You can only know that
by going. By going out
to other places. By going

anywhere else.
You do understand
the thirst you feel at once

upon leaving but
you do have to go to feel it
and you know

you are one of those
who were born
to feel it, so off you must go.