If running back home was a vessel
It would be garlanded with participation ribbons
Followed by politely lacklustre applause.
It would have been built with tentative hands
Using unlost driftwood scattered by the feet
Of designers rehearsed in poorly drawn lines
And Emily Dickinson’s poetry.
If running back home was a business
It would be the front for a secret organisation
That harvested hearts made of smoke
And souls filled with the ashes of dreams.
It would have harboured its merchandise
Using forklifts powered by water and oxygen
And all the other essential givers of life.
If running back home was a church
It would only accept donations of blood
Served on platters of silver polished with grace.
It would give sermons in parseltongue
To withered palm trees displaced by aesthetics
Onto historical salt mines rubbed into wounds
Cultivated by organ donors.
Running back home tugs at the heart.
That is, if home, like time, always runs forward.