Coming Home

I came home last night from a war deferred.

Heaving up those cobbled crimson stairsteps—

No, not red, not scarlet, not burgundy—

Tip-toeing ‘long those slick silver stairsteps,

Trembling, tracking, trudging towards two-

Thousand refracted soul-ular windows—

No, not souls, yes souls, not souls in windows,

Windows, not windows, just souls by windows—

Forlorn visually frisking a friend—

Not frisk, welcome, not forlorn—welcome home.