I’m home.
None of my furniture consoles me.
I am alone in a house stuffed with it.
None of it allows me to weep.

I’m home.
I keep my lids shuttered against
the inadvertent blow against them
that may come from a longing glance

from my straying left eye. I’m home
and if I am not careful, I will
burst. I will fall apart knowing
all of this is meant to be

average, normal; it is not.
I’m home now in a typical place
wearing typical clothes — black
T-shirt, plaid pants. You,

gentleman caller, can knock
but I will not respond. You
will walk away puzzled. Meanwhile
I’ll be naked and crying;

you will not hear me. I’m home
and I’m nude and crying and
to bring it to full and satisfying boil
no one is as puzzled as I am

about this. Everyone’s been called.
Everyone’s been notified. You would think
I would have this all simple and controlled.
If anyone comes in, though, I’ll be

crying. Without clothes. Lying
in the middle of the floor. Exhausted
from trying — what? Tired of all of this —
what? I’m home. What difference will it make?