Home is Perhaps an Abstraction

Home is perhaps

the yellow vacant benches screaming

out aloud, asking you to sit and sleep once

in the frozen winter

& experience poverty for a while.

Home is perhaps

the brown wooden cot

filled with dust and dirt

letting you experience the mirth

of the 90s.

Home is perhaps

the open spaces, the breeze and a bench,

not the elegant spiral stairs

leading me towards the white tiled floors

of the bedroom.

Home is perhaps

the happy company of the unknown

entwined in half English and half French.

Home is perhaps

to the child, the comfort of the wet cloth

besmirched in water during the first rain

with smiling and giggling faces

that never grow up to become the same.

And just maybe,

home is perhaps,

the lush green grass, the prickling Sun,

a frooti and a friend

to lie down with.

Home is perhaps,

sharing the same blanket with a beggar

on a winter morning

trying to fit in, squeeze in

and just maybe, telling him

"you belong here.

you too, belong here"


.