Three hours after my house burned down I arrived
Not to the sound of roaring flames
But the heavy shushing of the water hose
Like my dog before put down
Not in a fit of fiery glory
Merely a hush to lock my lips in the library
I wrote so many books into the very walls of this place
This heart where a home once was.
The same, lettered in some antique frame,
read the words “home is where the heart is”
They should have read “heart is where the home is”
and having left me, I linger on in homes without a heart
I figure fingers are for hands to pluck a music from a heart
string, but still- I think I finger futilely.
Removed of heart a home bothers not with me.


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