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My Home

Home


Every time
I cross
the Pisqataqua River

the Vacationland sign
looms
closer

and closer
until I can
almost

reach out
and touch the
green metal.

I stretch my arms
towards
Maine,

and once
I cross
the line

something feels different

even though
the pavement
still vibrates,

the air
still bristles
with autumn’s bite.

Nothing has changed,
yet everything has.

I am

home.



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