I have returned to the cradle of my youth
to sip warm Latte in a barista’s booth.
The loquacious chatter drifted in and droned
from the mothers, fathers and their creepy clones.
I was incognito; I was underground;
like a fugitive who they had never found.
I was a refugee, returning, old,
like a spy who had come in from the cold
to the village I left many years ago
for that languid land of midnight ice and snow.
It all looked the same through this poet’s eyes,
that see the unseen, through any disguise.
There was tarmac laid on my cheap childhood lawn,
where I used to lament, now I only yawn.