my home
is not
the room
where i sleep
fitfully.
or the house,
broken memories
and walls
the color
of
****.

my home
is the
off-key
singing
with my sister
in her car.
the buttered popcorn
from the movie theater
that we ate together,
her and my brother and i.
the spring air
as we ran with her dog.
the monotone
of teachers droning on,
the bright laughter
of my friends.

home is made
of the little
bits of joy
that
we’ve left
scattered
behind
us.