Coming Home at Dusk
How faint the echoes
of a loaded boombox
belting out its metallic grind.
Every deadbeat voice in town
would have been proud;
delirious over the sound
of a prodigal son – coming home
in combat boots
sinking under a naked sky.
Making a scene with the tide
– shaking your fist at the rain
open throated like your father;
howling blue notes East of the sun
all the way to Beale Street.
©️ Orion Foote
Visions of Orion Poetry 