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Dirty Hospitality

Neema Murimi ponders a 20-hour drive back home to a sodden, dirty South.

dirty hospitality

It was May 29th, 2019.
I began the 20-hour trek
To my home.

And I knew it
I knew.
That as soon as the crisp air left

As soon as it became soggy
And more endearing--

I was back in the Deep South

As dirty as 12 olives
Pooled at the bottom of a Martini
A dozen
The whole tribe
Before me.

Like Joseph meeting Benjamin
Let me hide my face
May I weep?

I have missed you so.

The smell of Black and Milds
Rising
Behind the bleachers
Of a Friday night football game.

No air conditioning in my car
I am dying.

Headed to delirium
My sweat
Writing its own diary.

Lord have I missed you

I have wanted to sit
At the front seat
When you go muddin’

Longed to sprawl in the backseat
Of a themed Cavalier
Childlike
Rims shiny

I have missed your camo
And steel toe boots

I have missed the genuine
Of your smile

I have missed your stories
Your prayers
On bended knee.

I have even missed
How much I hate
Your brand of heat.

I landed back on you
On May 30th, 2019.

And I possessed you
As you have always
Owned me.

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