where do each of us belong?
the vagabond belongs to the road.
the cook to the kitchen.
the staid bishop's initial home
is between the king's knight and the king
before heading off to war.
the poet's home
is with other poets
or lovers who leave
inspiration in each kiss.
yet, where does the past call home?
in the history of memories, maybe.
the heart of selfish heroes, indeed.
for myself, my past lives live
always just a hard blink of the eye away
when sitting in the backs of dimly lit rooms
in cursed towns that curl my mouth.
for the rest of my life,
my home is split;
some solid months is madness in Manhattan,
and other odd reprieves it is the road
like the vitriolic vagabond
from other such tales and histories and futures.