Home Town

A gazebo on the common,
two brick churches with steeples,
fixed sidewalk cracks that just come back
where aging trees' roots grow.
A supermarket clerk who remembers when my child was born,
the airport that was once there,
that I still see, but that's now gone.

That feeling that I get
when I see the highway sign
that bears that old familiar name
and let's me know I'm almost home.
The way that Charlie's tree is always first with
fiery Autumn leaves,
the way the same old puddles form,
the baseball fields,
the old folks' home,
the schools that still look just the same,
although one changed its name.

A local cemetery with so many names I know,
the way those same old headstones
don't seem spooky now.
The long-time neighbors who remember
my parents both died in November.
The way that Henry's aged, and the fact that Charlie's gone,
the way the little girl across the street's a mother now.

Its grown and changed, but so have I
and yet so much is still the same.
There's something dull but something very wonderful
about that old hometown.