A Place Like Home Poem by Ryan Cole

I have found comfort in this place
Not love perhaps, though it has flittered now and then
At the corners of my vision
Dancing seductively with beguiling grace
And I have rested in this place
While the wounds of a lifetime have healed
To old scars, tough and numb
So that they no longer cause pain
But are reminders of what has been lost
And I have changed in this place
Grown and shrunk, waxed and waned
Like the lines of tide at its two extremities
Marked by the detritus left behind
And I have lived in this place
But it has never been my home
Walls and sinks, bed and tables are not home
Shelter and convenience are not the parts
From which home is made
No, home is the things I keep in this tattered tramps suitcase
That is my heart
Held together by packing string, duct tape, and wishful thinking
With scuffs and scratches in the torn vinyl
Water stained, whether from rain or tears I cannot say
But it holds the precious things
The vagabond’s tune sung in the night to keep the demons at bay
The lovely melody pieced out on a slightly out of tune piano
And the light of your eyes, when I look into them
Head down and slightly turned to the left
Illuminated by my butane fire as I light your cigarette
And the smile we share
These are what I think of as a place like home