A Homeless Soul Poem by Mark Heathcote

I walk home past welcoming doorsteps
they litter my path,
not one I'd call my own,
mine was one I sometimes feared to tread
like some unwanted trespasser-
a poacher caught red-handed, my heart races.
My heart pounds near the foot of the door well
one foot in the traps,
the other turned side-on turned out to run.
Is this where I abode, this my home, this is family-
it's a welcoming bosom of love.
Is-it-any wonder then my soul feels homeless?