Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Home

I am looking at houses
trying to find out where I should go,
trying to find home.
Home wasn’t L.A. with its palm trees and coconut glazed women.
And it wasn’t Houston,
with the Bar-b-que breath of men pressed against my neck
like humidity.
And it wasn’t Nashville
with its pre-sweetened tea
and my life in danger every time I got behind the wheel.
Sometimes I think home is New York
but maybe that’s because my boyfriend would be with me
and I’d have someone to press into at night.
I could share dumplings in Chinatown
and eat Pizza folded in half
and we could stay out till four and come home to our one bedroom apartment
with the five flight walk up.
But what if he were gone?
How lonely that little place would feel.
The tea kettle screaming for one.
The dog, bored and waiting for my return.
The long walk in the cold
down concrete streets,
past faces I didn’t know.
Sitting in cafes and writing and watching.
The hot summers
sweating.
The subway,
a death tunnel,
a lonely black hole
I would fall into every time I had to go across town.
No, that isn’t home.
The truth is I don’t know where home is
and even if I did find it
I’d probably never feel like I was
home.