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

Almost poetically:

“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.