Home is clean sheets on Tuesdays.
Piles of poetry defy gravity, over-sized
soft  t-shirts in the closet and always
enough Diet Coke in the fridge.

Home is the cat muttering about nothing.
Lists for Doctors, for Target, for God.
Popcorn for dinner, music instead of  news.
Windows open in January for different air.

Home is breakfast, then leaving for meetings
or other hard things, then I come back, back, back.
No matter what the day brings, this is how
I get to next Tuesday again, again, again.