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How do you know you’re home?
The sight of your station when you leave the train.
When you first got on, something seemed wrong,
Things outside the window looked unfamiliar,
But it was only the rain,
Or the ongoing urban alteration,
Tearing down and building, station after station,
Passed with machine-like precision
By the wheels and the crew and the schedule of your train.
When you climb aboard, you may be home already,
In the warm, lighted car of the stealthy train.
Later, among dark, rainy streets,
You look for home, again.
Home may be when at last, you fall into bed
And dream of the combed green graves,
Home to the noiseless dead.
Or home could be in the arms of your wife
Who gave herself to you, and gave you life
Again, in children. And their home and the home of your wife
Is the home you find in the streets,
Which tonight the rain invades and eats.
The rain falls on the roof and eaves
Until the last meteorologist leaves.
Let yourself out. Now it’s safe to go.
Time to pity seekers, adventurers,
Famous poets, heartbroken.
How do they know they’re home? They never know.