This modern vagrant
Shuffles aimlessly through the city streets.
No welcoming light remains,
No beckoning promise of warmth,
Solace or shelter.
He once knew of refuge.
A communal, sprawling complex
Of shared ideals and common ails.
Still, that place was now forbidden.
He tried to return once,
But it was tainted by memory,
Cursed by the echoes of violence.
His most recent lodging was nice.
Warm, but unmistakeably janky.
Raised by a younger builder's hands,
With pipes leading back
That should be aimed away.
He loved the company there,
Or at least one among them,
Yet he knew this was a rented space.
A borrowing of sorts.
It belonged to those creative hands
Their prints, permanent on the walls.

So where to now?
Where can we send our reluctant traveller?
A heart is a home, indeed his was vacant.
In the true sense though.
No furnishings, or kindled fireplace.
No whistling stovetop kettle
Or a radio's crackled hum.
What of the shanty towns?
Places that hold familiar faces,
Characters of old sin,
Relics excavated from youthful times.
Warmer climes.
They would point to their tent
And swear to you it was a castle.
Then force a foul beverage down your throat and tell you to fuck off.

No

He would decide tomorrow,
Or at least exhaustion would decide.
For tonight he must pull his coat
Tight aound crossed legs,
Dream of a warm drink
And watch the flickering slides
Projected on the walls of his mind.
Imperfect, two paced and scratched.
But as near to a home
As this night will allow.

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