On route from Maryhook to Widows-end
Hard notes echo ‘round the bend
To find a mutt, a mason it seems
Singing to a cottage with stalks in its beams
Built from supple bark and ****** blooms
Hidden safely under berry-shrooms

He pipes his tune of hearth and home
Til spotting us, “Where did you come from!?”
“That’s not my home It’s just a dream,”
He clarifies of the cottage with stalks in its beams.
“That’s not my home. It couldn’t be!
How could such a sight belong to me?”

Hadn’t he noticed the walls of crusted rind
Around his toes – does it come to mind?
And the castles built into his palms,
Above chasm-dwelling catacombs
Where foreign bodies suffer and sleep
In clumsy coffins wrought with debris

Yet his wide and wanting eyes
Swelling planets in disguise
Ignorant and out of mind
Can’t see it’s not one-of-a kind?
Not three-of-a-kind or even four
Twenty-of-a-kind, maybe more.

“Oh, I do wish this home were mine.”
He cooes, plucking weeds and vines
While his pockets sink into his knees
With a hundred-one forgotten keys
His smile bathes in drizzled sweat
For another home he’ll surely forget.