I’m just a squatter here.

I stroll the back nine

Just to hear the meadow larks at sunrise

And feel the cool touch

Of rosyfingered dawn upon my cheek.

Is this how Homer wandered?

Then, without a place,

Now, a faceless poet in the annals of history?

A dirty canal and a narrow alley

And back to the street,

The concrete reminds me

That I don’t feel at home here.

Though, truly, I may be.

For, truly, I never felt at home, either,

When I walked the fields and pastures

Scattered over the thousand acres 

That technically was mine.

Suddenly I see a nameless flower. 

It’s come out of the earth 

As effortlessly as I have.

I walk by it, and I make a resolution,

To quit looking for home,

And try, instead, to find myself.

-jenn