Hanging My Hat
From the time I was a knee-high-to-a-grasshopper kid,
Conceivably for many more years before then,
I'd heard that folksy American old saw
"Anywhere I hang my hat is home"
And never really given it a passing thought, if that.
But lately, in my aging intellect's peregrinations,
I believe I see the essential wisdom
From which that modest apothegm engenders,
Catch the bittersweet drift
That straight-shoots its shaft through the apple's core.
In a rented cabin, for ten days,
On the shore of a frozen lake in northern Wisconsin,
I've spent the most joyous isolation I've ever known,
Not wanting this Sunday to pull up my tent stakes,
Send me home, to a home with no hatrack.
03/21/10 - (3)
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