It’s a funny thing,
The word home,
With so much meaning and none at all
That timeless institution
Possessed by anyone you ask
Not me – I grew up on the road
And in the sky
In snow and sun and rain and trees with
colored leaves that crunch under my feet
On sidewalks with fruit stands and pigeons and cigarettes
Puddles you can’t jump in,
A slow trickling creek bed
Graffiti and monuments, on subway, on foot,
I grew up nowhere and everywhere
Not a single concrete place
So I made one myself
Or at least, found it along the way
I grew up between the pages
Of a tattered old book
Across chapters I read infinite times,
I befriended the authors and characters they made
And their worlds became real
Their worlds became mine
And I did not have to wait for bus or plane
I could return at my choosing,
To this home I grew up alongside
It’s a funny thing, the word home
And if asked for mine, I might name a few places I’ve lived once before
But really I grew up
In stories, on pages
In castles, on dragons, in sword-fights and wand duels,
With magic and muggles and myths and mist
And demons and angels, heroes and villains
And gods and bad poetry
I grew up nowhere and everywhere but above all, in books