But my home – it’s my home (yes, the road unfolds as you follow a stained map).
But I traded it for a new pair of jeans and the big cod of the Northeast.
And when I wake up from my dreams facing West, where horse skulls roll
Under the Hills, under my feet, and chant words I don’t hear but understand to mean
‘I’ll trickle back to this place’, I shake the dust from my denim onto these soulless streets
And shed the taste of bluestemmed age that clings to the tongues of the ones I left.
Follow me; I’ve been dropped like a coin and will roll back along the highways that
Necklace the prairies with a string of teeth. Fallen out and gum-less is my home –
And yet I’ll return. If only in sleep, I’ll stand in a field on fire as day blazes out,
Into night, I’ll creep back and plant new things so that my home can eat.
— Korbin Richards
The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative 