Of Clothed Homes
I wish to write a poem
no coins tossed.
to write about a boy
who wishes to pull a tree from its roots.
times he won’t fall asleep, waiting
& still find unrest in his dreams.
I don’t want to hear about how he held on
to that man’s eyes like his danshiki,
a silent prayer on his lips – pregnant clouds,
a beckon for rains, soothing ones,
all on the ground he won’t leave
and for once, a knot won’t be formed,
the surface tension around his heart
& perhaps, a home
can still avoid being naked.