Short Of Home Poem by Tony Jolley

Lost.
That's the word to describe it.
Not the only one perhaps,
Might not even be the best,
But it's the one that springs to mind with economy
Rather than a restless search for the 'mot juste'.

Lost.
Dark doorway;
Little light
Emphasis on emptiness:
A house in mourning-
A long Ellen way short of 'home'.

Cold hall.
Silent lounge.

Put music on.
Loudish -
The sort that can still
Dance the feet off a reticent, two-left-footer at 50.
It's there in the background right now
But sounds somehow powerless,
Distant,
Disinterested.
It's caught wind of my mood maybe,
Or can't play off the hair rising up on the back of your neck,
That sends that 'irresistable tap' down your back, hips and legs
And shifts you into your joyful overdrive,
Sets you off spinning, floating, flying, singing
And careers you across the floor, beaming, into my arms.

Put pen to paper.
Cheating really.
Not planned.
Just to be doing.
Doing something.
Anything.
Anything to swallow the pill of time
That stands obstinately between me and mine.

Should stop there.
Makes poetic sense of a sort;
But this isn't poetry as I've told you:
It's cold-blooded murder –
The killing of time.

Going to crank up fingers and fretboard
And lose myself
In some amplified rock 'n' roll somewhere,
But no matter the volume
I'll hear her key in the door
And feel the house become a home once more.