I’m sorry, my dear, I can go no further. My boots have worn through, and My socks are becoming wet, And this long march through old streets Will not dry them out. I know home is the place without clothes That greets us with a smile Unashamed of what it really is, But I am the boy that is afraid to look Who hides his eyes beneath the brim of a baseball cap. Do you remember the time when we played hide and go seek In the empty lot where clover had become the carpet, and The rocks had become the wood floor, and The moss hanging from tree limbs had become the curtains Without windows except those that we opened When that was the game to play? There is no escape in words or birches. I know my feet will find their way back soon. Until then, though, I’ll bide my time here Where I have found that no one asks How I feel or where I plan to go.