Brought beneath Big Lots on Thanksgiving Day

There's a blinking orange neon light above, on a brown, brown building.
But it's not the brown of turkeys and gratitude; it's the brown of dirt and reconciliation and just maybe the ambition I need.
The exclamation point gave out a long time ago, and the "t" is tiring now.
I want to go home, but I don't know where that is. I wonder if I can be strong again.
And somewhere back in my mind, in a place half cynical and a quarter wise, is the admonition to get the "I' out of those sentences.
It is only later that the realization comes: maybe if my neon light burns out, something brighter will shine.