Bats

Home, I said, is a grey in the morning,
a cup of tea to hold;
A door, at will, to close or not to close.
A story told
in fights and makings-up, and fights some more -
an elixir of life
it seems, when we begin to forget the
others' ways.

Home, I said, is where we begin to fly,
even if it's like bats,
In the nighttime, stealthily, when no one
is watching us.
The first cigarette, the first swig of beer
would never taste so sweet
if home said, Ok, Do What You Will, Just
Find Your Self Soon.

Home, I said, is where you are, my spectre,
who often still at night
wake me up from memory, to place me
in another.