No particular home
means every place
is my home.
And what roof could carry
the sky’s coattails?
But, some nights,
the stars are particularly starless,
the fresh air
breathes darker
than bad whiskey
and the doorways I sleep in
are narrower, more confining
than any room
these bones have laid up in.
And where’s the romance,
when I smell worse than I feel
and everyone who’s out for
what they can get
still looks at those with nothing
like they’ve got something to give.
My restlessness damns me.
Everywhere I go
looks more and more
like every place
I’d never want to be.
I long for a place to live.
Meanwhile, I live in this place.
The Travails of a Homeless Man by John Grey
