No cardboard mat marks my bed.
My earthly things do have shelves.
Still all of the rooms are empty.
There’s no one inside but myself.
My hunger and thirst go unsated.
The days and the waiting are one
And those who ask, “how are you?”
Might as well be pointing a gun
My clothes and my shoes disguise me
Yet no paper bag hides my disease.
I’m lucid and clear but no one notices here.
That my nights are never at ease.
I’m not begging for any hand outs.
I don’t need to wash dirt from my face.
My piece of indifferent concrete
Is immune to outward disgrace.
An address can’t house belonging
Nor can a home fill a hole
No name on the box, no key in the lock
Can welcome a wandering soul.