Cramped conditions.
Leaky roof.
And a table with an address book
Of stolen laughter and piqued grimaces.
Squabbles, midnight rants.

How easy it was, how safe
To have a resting place;
An address to go back to.
It was tiring, though
Going back and forth.
Some corners still
Felt unfamiliar.
So I built homes
In people
But forgot they had ghosts, too
Gliding through their walls.

Homelessness, was another word.
For a gypsy soul should never go
Too close
With her Romany passions
Jigsawed and scattered;
Marble drops that can’t
Be gulped down.

A million words
Could not translate,
No paper could behold, or pens
Could articulate.
No postage stamps
Could deliver it
To some nondescript address.
For I have built homes
In people,
But forgot that they own the keys.

22 August 2016

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