Clean of distraction.
You’re looking for kinfolk,
For a long Tennessee face,
Gaelic bones, the drip of honey
Still trapped in the exiled throat.
When the mouth goes dry on you,
When dust hangs in your heart,
You’ll settle for Georgia,
Louisiana, the Inland Empire,
Though the humor’s not the same.
There’s red hot sauce in the jokes.
You want honey, sweet graces;
You want home.