Home

It’s too late. 

My feet have learned the pattern of the carpet, 

my fingers worn 
shiny patches on the knob.

I know how the furnace 
smells in January 

and how the coolness of my bedroom 
tastes in August. 

I have stood barefoot 

on kitchen linoleum 

eating cereal out of the box 

and spilled blood 

in the bathtub 

while shaving my legs. 

It’s too late. 

This, too, is home.