Come On Home

They say nothing to me
I say nothing to them.
Sometimes I can’t believe this is home.
I’ve heard it before.
I thought I’d been over that.
You’ll never really pass the things
you’re afraid of.
The man on the plastic bag looks like terror.
He’s starring at me
I can’t say why.
His face seems spoiled.
When I think of calling a friend, I notice that
most of them have mutilated into acquaintance
Maybe that’s my fault, maybe it’s a form of getting old
I’m used to small talk at the moment.


Carolina Vilas Boas