Invisibly homeless.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

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