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Berkeley / Los Angeles / Ireland
    home writing


by Ward Stothers

Home strapped on bent torso shoulders
Meaning wrapped in knots on a bedroll,
Streets stitch west, lengthening
Till lost in another nightfall, 
Gauging warm and dry, or cold and wet.
No room at the inn

Sunrise elevating, offering the day
Baking visions of fresh bread and hot biscuits
Coating hopes, causing breath
Surely food for everyone.
But life in a photo album
Missing touch
Staging smiles
 No room at the inn.

Traveler shuffles on a speeding footpath
As suits walk tightly and quickly by.
He talks to their striding faces,
They talk at a voiceless cell phone.

Feeling invisible
Standing out before us
In the embarrassment
Of a classless everything,
Wearing heartbeats like eggs in shell.

The stone rolls back
Invites travelers
Sit and stay, eat and sleep
Know and be known
At the inn.


Copyright 2006 Ward Stothers