The truth about Dorothy
is that she maybe was right in the words she spoke
as she pushed one heel in the direction of the other.
But she failed to mention
how one knows where to return to
after we are uplifted from all we know.
What kind of place is a home?
Maybe an oddly familiar trash can transports you
to a kitchen
where you have a lifetime of walking by and talking,
and you remember the little details feeding
the appetite of the soul
as the banana peel
from your hand.
Maybe in the reading nook
of your brain,
your intellect politely,
but never really politely,
in your conversation with yourself
and reminds you of the time
you hid in your room,
hoping the strength of the pillowcase would be enough
to protect against the strong winds
of the conversation carrying upstairs
because although the winds may not be there always
or even often,
the pillowcase will.
Maybe the silent string
that pulls two hearts
never too close together and
never too far apart
helps you rest comfortably in the possibility
because someone’s eyes
are a good resting place
for the weariness
of travelling thoughts.
Maybe homes are not meant
The humble abode is not intended for arrogance.
Home is like no place.