I have drilled into the heart
Of a small midwestern city,
And I feel like a voyeur.

My feet have trod the carpet
Of untold hundreds --
Some of them gone for good,
Some of them gone for the day
Leaving potpourri, TV schedules,
Tupperware full of cookies
And their friendly house cats.

Some of the people seem to
Have walked out just ahead of me,
But forever,
Leaving pieces of toys,
Toast crumbs,
Ugly wallpaper
And the overpowering, inexplicable smell
Of peanut butter and mothballs.

The soiled bathtubs,
The ugly stoves,
Broken windowsills,
Give me a tacit warning.
The unkempt boxwoods
And the cracked basement walls.

Green small chalkboard:
"Party -- Solo cups, Chex Mix"
And an Air Raid Warning
poster from the Civil Defense
Over forty years old.

The nautilus machine
Beside the overflowing ashtray,
The whole house
Marinated in the unmistakable odor
Of a smokehouse.

None of these places has been
My next home because
For once
I have a choice in the matter.
Freedom is the most demanding
Tyrant of them all.

Holding hands we go again
Here we go again
Again
This one isn't it either
Even the Canada geese have
Stopped flying back and forth
Why can't we land?

Because we're afraid
The next one
Would have been
The one.
And this one
Isn't.