Homecoming

I am no longer myself as I watch the evening blur the traffic to a pair of obese headlights. I return home, tried, my face pressed against the window of expectation . I climb the steps to my f lat, only to trip over the mat Outside the door. The key goes to sleep in my palm. I fear I have bungled again. That last refinement of speech terrifies me. The balloon. Of poetry has grown red in the face with repeated blowing. For scriptures I, therefore, recommend the humble newspaper: I find My prayers occasionally answered there. I shall, perhaps, go on. Like this, unmindful of day melting into the night. My heart I have turned inside out. Hereafter, I should be content, I think, to go through life with the small change of uncertainties. [From 'Homecoming]