Poetry
Nomadic
It was fun for a while to pretend
that the road was home
and wherever we would plant
the tent for the night was our neighborhood,
with a constant flux of new neighbors,
and we were the flux too
Set and strike
every day a new play
predictably unpredictable
Canvas walls are a transition
wind-changeable, unsteady
and our roots
bricked out far away
called to us
constantly
in a steady voice
It was nice for a while
we moved, we moved on,
we moved back
Some people are made to be nomads, and some aren’t. Readers, thank you!
