a shoe leans against another shoe,
a few stray hairs lay tangling in a comb,
(each thing's discarded where it's thrown)
a jacket flings an arm around two shoes --
and what do these have to do with home?
The drunken brothers' laces groaned
to tighten what was always coming loose.
What little they ever knew of home
they shed by leaving, alternate, alone.
The castoff jacket lay disused
among a few stray hairs. Toothed like a comb,
a darkness swept the floors. A night-light shone.
The jacket shrugged and settled, tired from use,
in a silence that does not -- even now -- seem like a home,
though the shoes dropped back, each like a stone,
into the jacket's folds. And tired and loose,
a few hairs caught and tangled in the comb.
I don't even know what I mean by 'home'.
