Home was Tammy Wynette singing twangy about d-i-v-o-r-c-e,
and Lionel Richie on my small radio, under blankets at night.
Airmail from Sunchang and mom’s lonely tears on the kitchen floor,
the wailing of Korean soap operas mingled with Fonzie’s voice.
Home was sex, drugs and rock n roll knocking on the door,
while Lawrence Welk swayed elegantly in the living room.
Home was as long and drawn out as the Mississippi River,
as sweet and sad as my first kiss with Torin, a black boy
who whispered “pretty young thing” as we stood on the porch.
My brother asked, “I saw you kiss him, did he use his tongue?”