Penelope Scambly Schott

October snow
down to the lower slopes of the mountain,
the brown hills of fall,

boys in their football helmets
busy running drills,
this lighted sign for Homecoming Week—

come home.

Or if this little town never was your home,
say you grew up someplace far away,
come anyhow.

I will bake an apple pie in a blue pie pan,
polish my grandma’s silver napkin ring
for your ironed white napkin.

When you arrive, when I hug you this hard
against my breasts, I will never confess
how much I needed you.

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