Home

An apartment is not a home, no matter how huge
or expensive, how high you are above the rabble.
Nor does it become a home because it is a house.
How many women sell themselves to dally there?
Mother smokes incessantly. Father whores.
He can do what he wants, her father was in furs,
and you, my sire, worked your way to taking over.
And I, what do I or my brother, my sister do,
why would we sacrifice our youth, all that we own
our supple, resilient, demanding minds, always on
the edge of falling back, spilling into oblivion,
their empty riches. There is another world I find
whenever I go there and each time my first time.
Stay here, shadows swarm for the green honey.

(9 December 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander