no home

some people never have
a home, a nest, a place they
can call their own.
a place they can feather
and decorate,
paint the walls, put
a pot on the stove.
they go from relationship
to relationship
moving in, moving out.
sleeping
in a guest room,
a basement, on a living room
couch.
the years go by,
there is grey in their hair,
they stare
into the mirror, older
now. unsettled still.
they wake up and wonder
where they are.
not a picture gets hung.
not a box unpacked, they
are gypsies,
vagabonds, half in
half out, always looking
through a window trying
to figure where to go,
who's next, trying hard,
with luggage in hand,
to understand what this life
is all about.