Home is A place without location But my feet know I’m there When they stride down the middle Like they own the place.
Now my tongue is parched for pavement-dirt And patterns of paving stones it knows; My ears adrift from pumping bass and parakeets And shouting in messy front patches That can barely be called ‘garden’.
When I am home, I intimately anticipate each season’s change Love each shape; watch fading paint peel And reminisce (Haven’t you grown)
Then sunken seats will hold my form And fingerprints on walls Await the affirmation of my touch And dents from doors too forcefully Swung open.
Home is A place without location. But my feet know I’m there When they stride down the middle Like they own the place.