Come On Home

They say nothing to me
I say nothing to them
Sometimes I can’t believe this is home
I’ve heard it before
I thought I’d been over that
You’ll never really pass the things
You’re afraid of
The man on the plastic bag looks like terror
He’s staring at me. I can’t say why
His face seems spoiled
When I think of calling a friend, I notice that
Most of them have mutilated into acquaintances
Maybe that’s my fault, maybe it’s a form of getting old
I’m used to small talk at the moment