Homecoming

 He left home every morning

a stranger in crisp fatigues blousing 

over boots polished like glass. 

Hugs wrinkled ruin into his day’s fresh start. 

Stepping on his shine was not allowed. 

Mom’s perfunctory kiss -- necessarily chaste -- 

religiously kept 

his starched uniform in shape.

 Anything warmer might

mess him up or make him late. 

 I dreaded the interval between 

his homecoming and the symbolic 

shedding of his soiled shirt. But the saving

scent of his thin, soft undershirt 

 proved him safely familiar 

and mine once again. 

 My messy need for contact

shed my shyness faster than 

his race to bust open the brass 

buckle on his olive drab belt, 

loosen the top button on his pants,

 and lay his scuffed boots aside. 

All in one motion 

he relaxed against the couch, 

offered his arm for a step, hoisted 

me onto his shoulders and proffered

his black pocket comb. 

 I welcomed the whisker burn 

on my legs dangling tangled 

around his neck.

His hair had enough 

pomade left to stay put

 in exotic or comic styles

 I slowly groomed in, 

 and combed quickly out.

By the time rhythmic purring 

came from his sagging 

throat and heavy head --

 tyranny returned. 

I scolded him to wake up, 

to straighten his neck

so I could put the final flourish

on the glistening masterpiece. 

His black curls became 
a conduit translating love
 through hungry, 
interpretive hands.