Some summers, My poem is a makeshift home, It’s cheap tarpaulin hanging by two sticks, You won’t notice it, It’s barely even seen, Let alone stand out, There are no commuters, No visitors, My poem is a makeshift home, It has unfamiliar cookware resting on its jagged platform, Sometimes the plastic leaks of sunlight, And I drown in its shallow puddles, It’s mostly worn out letters with fatigued arms, Wrongly fit pieces of a puzzle, Some summers, My poem is a makeshift home, Shabby, Severed, Passable, Home.