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almost home, when i missed the bottom stair, you were braiding your gray hair, it had grown so long, since i'd been gone, and the perfect girls, by the pool, they would protest, the cross around their necks, but our sons were overseas, and we all know about the hive and the honey bees, almost home, with an olive branch and a dove, you were beating on a persian rug, with your bible and your wedding band, both hidden on a tv stand, and the cruel wind blew, every city father fell, off the county carousel, while the dogs were eating snow, all our sons had sunk in a trunk of noah's clothes, almost home, we got lost on our new street, while your grieving girls all died in their sleep, so the dogs all went unfed, a great dream of bones all piled on the bed, and the cops couldn't care, when that crackhead built a boat, and said, "please, before i go, may our only honored bone, be the kinship of the kids and the riot squad"