There is this overwhelming--
Pulling sensation-- that can swallow a soul.
Every place I wander only almost feels like home.
The sounds I hear-- they never sing the same tune.
There is no squeaking of the porch swing--
In June-- before the sun rises over the garden rows--
While Papaw sorts through ten buckets of cucumbers and ripe tomatoes
And I complain about the welts left from the leaves touching my skin.

There's no...