336/365: I Can Be This Tourist

There is no home.
I thought I had one once
a long time ago,
but as soon as I was old enough
to know my own mind,
it was gone.
I looked,
for a time,
and I waited,
for a time.
I thought it would rise to meet my feet.
I would set down my bags
and there it would be.
It would spread itself out from under me
like cracks in glass.
Later, I tried to build my own.
I curated its parts
and wiped its counters clean.
There was still no home.
We are passing through,
I know this.
We are visitors here
in the suits of animals,
I know this.
It would be so nice, though,
to settle in and feel that I know this place,
that it is my being's extension,
that I and it belong to each other in some way
beyond my having touched it
or it having been touched by dead ancestors,
even if it is not the truth,
that we are here for each other.
I can be this tourist taking snapshots,
sad about the brevity of the trip,
catching coffee for the road
and collecting bric-a-brac,
but it is sad at times
not to have a pretty lie,
that glad cross of the albatross,
to tell me this is it.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com