Returning home from family once more,
I lock, I lower shade, I crank the chrome
to draw a bath to warm my chilly core.
Returning home.

Not too agoraphobic, my syndrome
is homing ever after I explore.
And like today, I say it in a poem.

It’s hackneyed. I’m a hermit. What a bore.
Yet this is recompense for every roam.
I’ll rest, but first assert how I adore
returning home.