my home is

my home is where the keurig is.

my home is where the k-cups are.

my home is where the la-z-boy is shredded

by a cat named otis.

my home is this very second:

where the fullest moon illuminates

my lover’s prize dahlias, all

named liked racehorses:

daddy’s girl,

peekaboo,

beats me,

mardi gras.

my home is the mattress

imprinted with our body’s weight, the sleepers’ converse bas relief.

my home is home is home like love is love is love.

i bet you’ve heard it all before: the homehold, the houseland, the homing hearth of earthy hearts, sacredly etcetera.

but do not be jaded. my home is real.

it’s big enough for you and me and me and you,

for snowflakes and trumpish antivaxers,

for huddled guatemalan masses yearning,

for riverboat rogues and blackguards cheating,

for e-coin sinners and ethel merman on lsd,

for red and blue and glittery saints.

my home is a real home in a real america

found only on google's blue marble

and my children who live here do not die here

and my ghosts who die here do not live here

and my dead and my unborn ancestors drink green tea

and the circus clown car is parked in the driveway

where all my memories spill out with slapsticky shoes,

comically large and ungainly.

my home is where i wake up

after the dream of kissing an eagle or cheetah on the mouth

or doing a wet tango with you in an orphanage

and i say: wait, wait, dammit, this isn’t my home

but then it is and it isn’t and i can’t remember

where my home really is.