On Not Going Home

If only I had a place with a creek in its soul
a place to cool my toes
a place to wash
a place to watch the flow
If only I had a set of rocks to hop on
Not the hard rocks
rocks washed soft
nature-made not placed there
instruments for the path of least resistance
not obstacles
If only I could drink there
and merely be
thirsty then quencehed
all in one moment
If only I had a place that rolls
down from the mountain
and on toward the river
and doesn’t fall
but it takes thirty minutes to park there
the banks are paved over
and every person sidewalks
I’m alone in my barefeet
used to be, there was nothing better to do
and now, well why would you
its dirty
and squish of sewage between the toes
sewage, unknown how old
used to be, it glittered like glass
and now it is glass
I only wish I had a place to rest my feet