Home is that place where,

when you have to go there –

and you have to go there,


face sagging

through the gate

up the path

knuckles brushing

the reluctant door

so long forgotten hidden lost

until the homing urge


scratching yawning farting

pushing back the duvet

with imprecations, muted

or otherwise

flinging open the door



to find yourself on the road.

Come home.

Home is that place where,

when you have to go there,

they have to take you in

to their hearts

to their lap to rock and dandle

to their arms to wrap

to their shoulders to comfort

to the hearth side to belong.

If you come into a house

with no heart

no lap for cradling

no arms for wrapping

no shoulders for leaning

no place at the hearth,


no matter what their names

or their claims

it is not home.

Shake their dust from your toes

clap your sandals together

in their faces.

Find your feet again upon that road.

Come home.