If home was where the heart is,
mine would be
about as big as the palm of his hand.
Home is where your rituals are.
Home has food and a bed.
Home is your survival.
Home is the four walls you don’t
notice unless you’ve woken up
and they’re painted red.
Home is not poetic
or even lovely.
Home is simply a house.
Home is not where the heart is,
that’s heaven.