Home isn't everything.

Home is where you stagnate
inside barrels of old water.
Home is replaying
the
same
song
until that same song
becomes only a noise you don't hear.
Home is watching over others,
nodding attentively,
and pressing down on the tops
of bursting suitcases
as they leave.
Home is watching the world
from a pale balcony,
with linked arms
through the neighbour's,
whose always was there.
Home is breathing
to the beat of alarm clocks,
no longer looking
at the tops of buildings.
Home is when you can't tell
one season from another,
or when you can't remember
the last time
it felt so cold.
Home is boxes
of obligatory birthday cards
and wishes that mean well
once every year.
Home is in things
we're afraid to be rid of
lest we find nothing
and no-one
to fill empty arms.
Home is pulled muscles
and the tug of routine.
Home is set-up
like a well-laid out table;
with knives and forks
of stainless steel.




Nov 2009.