David Anson Lee

The One You Still Call Home
 
I keep your jacket by the door:
frayed cuffs, a coin in the pocket, rain.
It smells like diesel and late-night roads,
like all the places you promised to go.

And I know, I know: you have to roam;
still, somewhere in your bones, I’m home.

Your postcards come like sparrows, bent
but bright with edges of the sky.
Half your letters end the same: I’m fine.
You fold your promises like maps.

And I know, I know: you have to roam;
still, somewhere in your bones, I’m home.

I leave the porch light a patient thing,
a small insistence burning low.
Go where the highway opens, child:
this door stays loose for you to come.

And I know, I know: you have to roam;
still, somewhere in your bones, I’m home.

David Anson Lee is a poet and physician with a background in philosophy and medicine. His work explores the human condition with attention to rhythm, sound, and emotional resonance, drawing on experiences in both daily life and the clinical world. He writes to illuminate ordinary moments with lyrical precision and musicality.