Home is a funny word.

Home is the napkin
That you use to wipe the salt from your hands.
It is found on dime-a-dozen
Christmas cards and TV meals.

It is paraded by the letting agents;
Founded by stay-at-home adults,
Who will do anything,
Anything.
To break the monotonous tug of home.

Home is where you mind your manners
And comb your hair.
You plaster your flesh and bone
With a bracing tolerance
To hold fast against the moronic company,
All with no nicotine in the bloodstream.

Home is the shrapnel of memory
That has been so scattered in your mind,
And home is the filing system
That finally puts order to it all.

It is a mug of tea
Poured in your favourite mug
But not to your favourite taste.

Home can be the well-adjusted face
To the most maladjusted of bodies.
The gritted teeth,
The clamour of attention,
The lack of comprehension,
‘You don’t understand’
No you, you need to understand.

This might not be home anymore.
Until I am gone.