Back home

Walking across the supermarket car park, I see the old faces still hanging from designer nooses. The screams from babies, as loud as the over-worked mothers, with their over flowing baskets leaving breadcrumb trails for tomorrows lot to follow. And my coat and hair trail along, as I'm recognized but never acknowledged, by the vacant glances, who still have the ability to twist the knife with ease. The old towns still the same. Never mine to own.