Awakening in no person’s home
In an impersonal bed,
Pillows passing under
Nightly foster head placements,
Shower and flushing sounds
Creeping through the blandly
Painted walls
From the anonymous neighbor
In the never-world next door.
Stumbling awareness
Is greeted by empty ennui
And a brief reflection
On a middle-class variety
Of being
Hopefully temporarily
Homeless.
Eating food without character
To quell one hunger
While igniting yet another,
The telephone
Is an elective umbilical
Approximating
A brief joining
With the home planet.
Pictures nailed to the walls,
A TV with poor reception
And all the wrong channels,
Uncomfortable chairs,
Lights always too bright
Or too dim
And a bed not built
Or suited to offer
Human rest;
Even the air is someone
Else’s.
Jack Kerouac
For a night or two.
The memory
And value of home
Again reinforced
By a necessary visit
To an overpriced,
Impersonal,
Uncomfortable.
Under-furnished
And inevitably
Unwelcoming
Space
Designed for no one
In particular.
Eating food sans character
To quell one hunger
While igniting yet another,
The telephone
Is an elective umbilical
Approximating
A brief joining
With the home planet.
Pictures nailed to the walls,
A TV with poor reception
And all the wrong channels,
Uncomfortable chairs,
Lights always too bright
Or too dim
And a bed not built for
Or suited to offer
Human rest;
Even the air is someone
Else’s.
The memory
And value of home
Again reinforced
By a necessary visit
To twilight zoned,
Impersonal,
Uncomfortable
And unwelcoming
Tasteless slice
Or reality pie.
A space
Designed for everyone,
Anyone and for
No one
In particular.
The sweetest view
Is in the
Rear-view mirror.