June 8th, 2011

And Some Other PLace

Your body is a home,
But you don't deserve it.

You don't deserve the architectural structure of your spine,
The bones stemming from sockets,
The ligaments and muscles,
Holding fragile things, really, in place.

You don't deserve the electrical wiring
Of your nerves and blood stream,
Those arteries and veins,
Swimming with the chemical flow,
Of stimulating substances.

You don't deserve the windows that are
Your eyes, mouth and ears,
From which you see, and experience.
It's not that I'm complaining,
But anyone would kill for the gifts of normalcy.

You don't deserve those organs,
Living, working systems of a full family,
In cooperation, unlike you ever were.
You don't deserve it all.

The coarseness of your skin,
Doesn't account for brick walls,
All the things you should have done,
But never will.

But still, you are a home,
Because shelter has no heartbeat,
No life save for the ones it contains,
But just because you housed someone once,
Doesn't make that skin and bones,
A familiar place.