Passing Through

Not even laughter marked the passing

where the final hop was made,

where I found time

waiting with a smokeless cigarette,

and shadows played burlesque tragedy

upon bones once called foundation.

There were memories in the scraps of smiles.

Cracked and bloody in the marsh,

a framed lie will sink into the sight unseen.

One life at a time

these homes just

stepping stones between—

thank God there’s soul to find cause

you can’t go home again.