Home Is Where I Want To Be

Late Bank Holiday reached its close.
I did not believe he would come for I believed
the lure of a girl in red glasses

was greater than that of a barbecue
in a ho-hum, humdrum back yard.
Everyone had eaten their fill of ribs

grown cold, Chicken ignored had charred
and one miserable mackerel lay on a bed
of chopped fennel and wilted dill. Life was still.

Contemplated packing up but then, I heard
his voice grow louder as he wandered in.
He ate with relish, complimenting cold food.

I loved him for his aplomb, his politesse,
his being here among us on this sultry August night.
Then he played. He sang Johnny B. Goode.

Hey Ya, his repertoire. We clapped and sang.
His little brother played the air guitar.
I thought, ‘this feels like home,’ as we sat
on borrowed chairs and watched a shooting star