Everything Not Here

Can’t explain
what we long for
beyond the shrug that says, 
“Everything not here.” 

The presence of 
having company and of how
we used to long for them
to go home.

The joy of going out to eat
and saying afterward,
“next time, let’s just
stay home.”

Frenzied sex followed by
falling asleep, waking up
late for work, deciding to be
naughty and stay right there
in bed all day at home.

Home sick, home
with a sick child, home
exhausted after a road trip,
boring Sunday afternoon
at home. 

Can’t describe it completely —
for some it was hell,
for some it was peace, 
for some it was just a place
to sleep, to eat, to fuck or yearn to fuck;
a laundry room, a tub and shower,
a toilet bowl wobbling on a bad floor;
landlord making false promises,
off-street parking, garage, good yard,
curb appeal, transient housing
on the path to a dream palace.

What we long for:
pastel light in bay window home;
view of the ocean mountain desert home;
proximity to the hot new neighborhood home;
childhood rhyme home — 
home again home again jiggetty-jig.

Home is where you end up,
that place to stay that feels like home
after you are done being elsewhere;
anywhere but here because
call here whatever you like but

we’re done with here.