I spend another night
With the sneaking suspicion
That I don't belong here.
For example, Where is my bookshelf?
It should cover a wall
And seven floors of house
That I don't own.
These people who live here
I don't call them wife,
Or boy or girl; son
And daughter of mine.
They aren't even mum and dad anymore.
They are friend and foe!
My sometime shoulders for woe;
My sometime audience for jokes
And the ever present participants
For a late night cup of Joe
(Or maybe a pint to two)

I have four walls to my name
And my bookshelf you say?
Well it is neatly tucked away
Like a beat dog or a sheltering stray
Behind a wall of vanity
And this fading grip on sanity
As I try to find some place in the world
To call my own.
Mum and Dad said I could always come home
But I'd like to say that to my little ones
And hope that when they stray
They stray the right way...
For them. Until then I guess I'm here
With my two point solitary
Half pint fears and the risk of growing old
Without a lover or a home,
Just a bunch of old ideas
And this stupid, ******* poem.