Poetry

In my little home, three people

feels crowded. If my friends come, it’s the kind of cramped

you enjoy.

 

In my little home I have faucets that run

And run, and a washer that never stops churning.

 

That is, when I can find them.

 

Sometimes I can see through my roof and count the stars

 

At the beach, or in the mountains –

I’ve even seen them from my parents’ backyard.

 

No mortgage, just a one-time payment and it lasts

Unless it breaks down.

 

It might leak when it rains

But I won’t live in it forever

 

I still live with my parents, who taught me

home is where the heart is.

 

My heart belongs to nature.

Home is in my tent.