Poem: Coming Home
Four in the morning.
There is an Irish man on the bus
Talking to himself, clearly intoxicated.
“I’m coming home!” He blurts out suddenly,
To an audience of no-one.
But I hear.
After some grunts and mumbling, he asks:
“Where the fuck are we?”
A mighty question for his current status.
Somehow, he manages to answer his own inquiry
“I have no fucking clue where I am.”
I too, feel the same.
Although there is one thing to his drunken ramblings
That rings true.
I am coming home.