I like the light in my own home-
soft glow of the evening
kind and warm until the nothing of night.
I like my own sounds-
neighbours in the hall I hardly hear.
The refrigerator sounded so loud
for that first week but now is just the din of days
plucking on in the corner like an undemanding friend.
It's nice to travel.
Healthy, probably.
Lucky, of course.
But it's never right-
the light.
Eviscerating white or in the wrong place.
The water, a trickle or an assault.
No drawers contain quite what they ought to.
All I see are the uncleaned streaks on every other wall
(though mine I barely notice at all
unless I'm in the mood-
usually in the spring and fall).
Even the places that make you say
"I could get used to this"
are not for me.
They are not places I really want to be.
I want to be where I am
with a closed door
and an open window
and no plans.