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The skies behave as if leaving off
at a conversation that I can't recall,
and pelting us with impotent gusts
that leave us wet at the sleeves
The home is not a home, so much
as it is a place of daily rebirthing;
emerging from dark walls that try
to envelope you in your bedsheets,
only to shine like the newest bloom
in a proud garden, on the edge of town,
where nothing is ever out of hand,
nor out of anyone's character.
The path to our cars is full of
terrifying visions that claw at
our underbellies as we clamor,
and wait for a solution made real.
The stall we occupy is
less a place of work and more
a place of hope, of progress;
albeit so heavy a soul's a burden.
The home is different darker,
under heavy cloud or dead of night.
We wary of people in it who
were uninvited but so insistent.
Then we sigh in wary reason
that surely we had locked the door,
and left a bolt upon the latch that
could never be just wrenched away.
The bed is sensibly inevitable,
because the couch is less inviting;
the floor a word of warning made
with flattened wood and plastic tiles.
The sky is sort of muddled beyond
the lateness of the hour and day.
Few care or pretend to pay attention;
we're all just hungry for our sleep.
