Intolerable homecoming

Intolerable Homecoming

I’m home, been away for years, walk, near houses,
in back-streets, to avoid friends I used to know, who
have been living here so long, they only walk one
way to town, the shortest one. They’ll be wearing
green arm bands with “We used to be your friends”
printed in black. They’ll talk of old times, days that
means nothing to me, I was born with an old soul
and a melancholic heart.

I recall a girl though, who used to walk streets, near
the docks, she had time for me, a good arrangement,
until she forgot her calling and spoke of marriage;
did she think I would wed a whore? I’m here to put
flowers on graves, there are many, rows upon rows
of gold lettered marble; they lived in poverty but are
dead in style. Two more days and I’m off; the grief
of being here is unbearable