8th August, '07

A man travels the world in search of what he wants, and then returns home to find it.
— Anon

A strange feeling,
being a guest
in your own house.
Visiting for a few days,
and then returning.
To where? Who knows?

“Make yourself at Home,”
they said,
with mock sincerity.
But I’m not sure I did,
choosing to slip unseen
like a ghost
through the shadows,
rather than play host
to a roomful of friends.

A scoop of heaven,
nothing less;
set in the woods,
with a brook,
my new address.
But Home,
unlike a House,
can never be seen.

While my sisters pretended
to sleep, I sat out
in the back
and sipped orange coke.
Soon it would be time
to hit the road again.
For those who travel are always guests.
And everywhere is Home.