I concentrated on my kin last week.
I occupied less space and wrote few lines.
I funded meals and didn’t try to speak.
I paid attention to some odd designs.
I took less space than when I bide at home.
I barely read and didn’t watch TV.
I only wrote this mediocre poem.
And now it’s time to travel back to me.

It’s just as well that visiting is rare.
I understand its end and so will serve.
I don’t mind temporary work I know
will cease. This selfish soul can share some air,
can clean another’s mess and even swerve
from fond routine. I always get to go.

This entry was posted in Family, Holidays, Poetry, Transit, Writing and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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