YOUR VAGABOND HEART

When I met you,
you told me that you never stay in one place long,
and that you wanted to see the world.
You were disenfranchised from your parents
and hadn't seen them since you were a girl.
Your backpack and your toothbrush
were just about all you had
because it was easier to catch a Greyhound
when all you had was a bag.
You went from state to state
spitting both vitriol and charisma.
You did odd jobs and would never leave a place
until you had saved up two hundred dollars.
You had already seen more national parks
than I could hold up fingers
and had spent more nights in tents
than our "Nation's finest" soldiers.

Somehow I thought your vagabond heart
had found a kindred spirit with my homebody one.
But after eight months of laughing times,
I found a goodbye note outside my door, and you were gone.

I hope your traveling heart comes back,
because I worry about you.
And I'm glad your note said
that you enjoyed our time together.