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

states away 

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 

drops 

from your hand.

Maybe in the reading nook 

of your brain,

your intellect politely,

but never really politely,

interjects 

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

of mobility

because someone’s eyes 

are a good resting place 

for the weariness

of travelling thoughts.

Maybe homes are not meant 

to be

realized.

The humble abode is not intended for arrogance.

Home is like no place.