The Place They Call Home

I take a step, and then again, to the place I have always known. I think just once, (and not again), “yes, it is my home.” I stop and stare, without a care, and wonder, “What would happen if my house disappeared, my house for years? Would I live in the streets, among all the heaps of garbage and trash, without a stash of treasures I behold?” I shake my head and think instead about the place I call home. I get inside, rush to my room, and, instead, I assume that my family is home. I hop in my chair with zero despair and think about what to do. I let myself think and think, then all I think of is this: “The people on the streets, among all the heaps, with the garbage and trash, without a stash of all the things they treasure. It must be cold, among all the mold, wondering “when will this end?” I go for a walk all the way to the store, to the place most adore. I bought some tents in the place that I went, some blankets too, different colors like blue, some big and some small, and I paid for it all. I passed them all out, and went all about, making people happy. Home is a place where some people play, home is a place no one keeps away, home is the world only you know. It is the place we call home.