Alone, on my way home
for Thanksgiving one year–
pleased to finally be an adult
(of legal drinking age, that is)
with (semi)proper virtues,
some decisions to make, some to cage
out of college, supporting myself
living on my own, away from family;
no longer a burden with no breaks–
a storm began to brew, little taps
grew into thunderous clunks
with each passing mile, a hangover
from last night’s drunk,
only it wasn’t.
Halfway there, feverish chills
of cold lightning bolts
followed by rushes of hot lava,
driving through a ditch,
or was it a bend in the road?
Hallucinations a mirage,
of independence swarm,
a wish for a bridge
to my childhood palace
with Mom’s loving arms.
When I finally arrived,
she stood at the door.
I said I was SICK,
and with her help
dragged my feet up the steps
to my glorious room
where I crashed in my childhood bed
four days, dreaming of poetry
and pumpkin pie.
The Sunday Whirl 91- burden, bends, drunk, poetry, virtue, palace,
ditch, diminishing, wish, breaks, room, steps
*I was still sick when I had to leave that Sunday.