COMING HOME

He stood at the window
most nights. An old
man with soft white
hair, and a smiling
face. His bright blue
eyes shone like rare
lamps on a dark day.

Coming home,
not a star in the
sky, if I felt a little
lost, or battered by
the world: I'd often
lift my eyes up to
the 3rd floor, and
hope to find him
there. That familiar
gay man in the
window: with his
wise white hair,
and Zen-like face.

A bright light in the
pitch black night.
To tell me who
I am. To see me
safely home.

Poem © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell