Ribs, Like Walls

Something a little bit about an overattachment to the safety a home can offer.

Ah, home.

A door opened by any means

even if it will be opened from the inside.

Those inside seem not to see

that I do have my own key,

and they get up from their business;

leave it fondly to the side

only to do this for me.

 

Alas I cannot abide

with this occurring under a roof

What proof is there?

What vain, small hope

that only in the Hermit’s shell

there should be such

Kindness?

Help?

Whatever it is, it is unconditional

under the condition of the walls and house.

 

And outside walls?

Not ours to ponder.

What goes yonder of these halls?

 

Not ours to think.

But theirs to think.

 

Home.

Is it where the heart is?

Nay, I say,

for my heart’s within my chest

and of course, I’ll do my best

to give those few who want a piece

the part of their desire.

And be this done for good or bad

I will not know until it’s done.

 

But one thing I do know

the bad will not afflict

any more than a wasp can afflict.

It will worsen and chase

should I frighten and run.

But, this excluded, all there is to fear

is the mild sting of disappointment

before a pinch of myself gets back within my chest

and I go merrily on my way

never fearing anaphylactic shock

for nobody is allergic to trust.

 

Home: where the heart is?

If it should be so,

let us consider a small large fact:

my heart follows wherever I go.

So might I move for all my life

or stay in one small spot?

For peril, happiness, and maybe strife

it will not vary in the slightest.

 

Yet my heart and its thoracic-cage house

are pulléd forward, mostly up.

What does that mean about my home?

 

Have I none?

 

A question worth a million

but answered in only nineteen.

 

I am my home

and should the world be every place I go

it will be my home also.

Author's Note

Criticism, as always, welcome.