Not Where the Heart is

Nobody here's selling crawdads out
Of a shack at the side of a busy street.
Oysters and shrimp cost an arm
And a leg, and they aren't all that fresh.
There's no gumbo, no po' boys, no red
Beans and rice, and it isn't warm here.
It's May and still cold.  I have packed
Up my shorts and put back on my
Jacket.  Having flown in last night,
I now wish that I hadn't.  It isn't
So great to be home.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2022-05-04 at 18:32

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
That feeling is the pits, isn't it. I confess to feeling that way almost every time I go 'home'. I hope something happens to brighten up your view. Your poem says it all, and as usual very eloquently.