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Raud A. Kennedy

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Home

I pass the same tin can in the gutter
every morning on the way down the hill.
It’s been there as long as I’ve been here.
I don’t pick it up to throw it away,
though there’s a bin at the base of the hill.
Nor does anyone else.
I’ve wondered what it held.
Maybe peas, maybe beans, whatever the locals here eat.
I stop and stare at the rain water
sluicing through the can’s rusted out bottom,
looking like a strange one to whoever’s
peeking from behind their curtains,
and ask myself why I moved to this far away, rainy land.
The answer comes as I ask the question.
I’m one always to move on, never to make a home.
I tell myself I’ll find it eventually,
but I belong as much one place as another.
For the past two months home has been cold and wet.
And dark. Winter in the West Highlands of Scotland.

 

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