When I was younger, the world
was my playground. Any place,
if I believed hard enough, or even
if it just looked comfortable and I
was in the right mood, became my own.

Little fouryearold, fiveyearold, sixyearold
me, would automatically case out
the joint, scan any room, looking
for places to fit my tiny four
fivesixyearold body, comfortably.

Today I was sitting in a museum, where
benches lined in carpet lined
the walls, and a quiet voice
I had forgotten once lived inside
whispered "you could sleep here."

When I was younger, I still believed
in the power of family, of love, I
still believed we were all
alright, these things happened in every
house, and my house was the best for me.

Little fouryearold, fiveyearold, sixyearold me, little
voices whispering "you could be safe
here," little nooks and crannies to hide
your fourfivesixyearold body, I wonder
were you, even then, looking for a home?