Home Takes Time

Home is a corner,

a wedge between

the wall and the bed,

free from dread,

with a Barbie and a book,

a safe little nook,

they'll never look.

Home is the day

I run away.

Don't look back,

anywhere is better,

a broken down cadillac,

your rusty pontiac,

my things in a backpack.

Home is at night,

while you're sleeping,

I'm weeping

but quietly housekeeping

and dreaming of creeping

into the night

with the kids.

Home is the shack

with flowers outside,

a small plastic slide,

the kids are my pride,

the giggles and songs

right all the wrongs

of yesteryear.

Home is old,

as old as me,

wild and free,

grandkids playing

flowers swaying,

no more paying

for past mistakes.