Acorns everywhere, torn from their spiky homes,
leaves upon puddled leaves, that crunchy
step-crunch-step-crunch as you walk amongst
their shells.

The sun keeps traveling southward, November
looms along the horizon, and I can feel my bones
in the groaning of the wind, in the blankets
that start to line the mobile homes
of those that have no home.

I am my own cliche.  I sit along these tracks,
again,
in late October and feel myself in the
maw of a brutal winter gloom.  I feel lucky
to have a home, socket-warmth, soft
pillows, popcorn.

Nevertheless, I feel that sundering tug
to throw it all away
to pack myself in a bag
and follow those rails
to whenever, 
wherever they go.