A Home In Many Places

It was odd, I admit
to find myself a home
amidst the shelving and rot
amidst the battered old tomes.

Stories of people,
of stories, of things -
a decimal labeling
of related beings.

You punch in and out,
tag a card, worn down,
slip it into the jacket
let your mind wander round.

Once you settle in, warm,
let your mind out its cage,
do you read about the author?
or skip to the front page?

As the words weave a story,
you may once have heard,
let me twiddle your knobs,
there’s still life in this bird —
in nineteen old twenties,
there once lived a man,
a nomad among nomads,
a man with no plan.

he went right in and out
of the lives he should touch
no latent relation,
that was asking too much.

when caught by the whiskers
and demanded of love,
he gave all he offered
and not a sliver above.

he dodged the resentment
of those who love, for love’s sake
he left a trail of old heartbreak
and tears in his wake.

why should I, he asked
tie myself down,
be bethrothed to another
and swear by her now?

and so thinking, he left,
every friendship half shared
it was not money, but choice,
that made this man, millionaire

he lived for his days,
by his nights he forgot,
what secret to life, then -
to forget, than to not.

So on he went, free,
caught himself thinking, one night,
I’ll look back tomorrow,
and see if I’m right.

The next day he looked back,
looked askance at himself
have I lived for a reason
or simply lived for myself?

How long have I wandered
Still how long must I roam,
I have a home in many places,
yet in no place, a home.

It’s here that I leave you,
you know stories aren’t real,
they’re text from an author
who thinks, who feels.

Those books on the shelves,
they’re windows into minds,
of people, of choices,
with an infinite rewind.

Stay with me a while,
these books we’ll divide,
a mind for you and for me
let’s read side by side.