Pilgrim

Pilgrim

I grew up gypsy-wild,
my father changing jobs
like he changed shirts.
Schools, friends, neighborhoods were
a panorama of mental postcards,
flashing past my merry-go-round
in a constant stream of imagery.

Home was just a word, an illusion,
used flippantly, sounding hollow,
like saying love
when you meant lust.
Home was just a place, a feeling
that I witnessed in others,
not something within my
personal dominion, so
I just looked at my city,
Seattle, as home;
the place I was reared,
a seven-hilled city by the Sound—
even though it was
like pointing to a great hotel
and speaking
of the 40 apartments
I had lived in.

I found myself spending time
residing in the vast halls
of my imagination,
haunting movie houses, libraries, parks,
finding solace in the memory
of past lives and past homes.

One day I noticed by parents were gone,
the familiar landmarks had changed,
my friends had swapped faces
so often I could hardly recognize
any of them. I wandered for a time
naked, solitary, vulnerable,
chasing ghosts and shredded memories.

But I was lucky.
A tall woman waltzed into my life
twenty years ago and miraculously
decided to grow old with me.
We drew up our contract
with the State and with God,
and soon became the twin occupants
of a two-headed love beast,
and together grew into one
complete organism.


Finally
the word home
and the word love
inhabit common ground
midst the limitless confines
of that golden beast—
and it feels like home
every time
I hold my wife’s heart.

Glenn Buttkus June 2010