When I thought of A Home.
I thought Where shall it set?
And its geography be?
In America or at home in Britain
Could it ever someday be?
A place to lay my head.
To be, what I thought I wanted,
With some kind of bed,
Where books would be written and read,
Maybe with a back garden shed.
When I was a kid,
I did not dream of a home,
At least not one of my own.
So many others had shown,
Procurement of one's own
often only makes them groan.
Maintenance of one took
seasons of work,
used up all of their time,
Something for them,
but surely not mine.
Time passed away, hundreds of thousands spent.
Of dollars, or pounds, for taxes and rent.
Angry old bankers made denial of loans to me
Via something called the credit score
A sport made to block home buying
Just to prevent life for oneself and one's friends.
Pain and despair all came from the homes,
Most never realized their dream which is to own.
The thing they are slaved to and serve,
Day and night. Where they might,
Get moments of joy in darkness and light.
Power shut off, paint always spread, taxes based on
How well developed it was, house, hearth and place
Home where it stood and it fell. Where we walked
and we crawled into and out of holes
in the walls.
Finally.
All of your family dies when you're old.
Like my family left cash and a house I did
buy. No mortgage, no debt, no payments to forget.
But family all left. So alone to I set.
In this home which is useless though new.
It was supposed to be for me and for you.
But that is now a dream that has fled.
We never put up a small shed.
In the back grarden. The bed, is only
for me now since you left.
