I leave this gray-colored box called the office
On seeking wings.
I will walk on dirty streets, locking eyes
With the deprived and privileged alike,
The thoughts behind the stares a mystery.
My steps will lead me up stairs
That open to various places
--- The bookstore and I feast on poetry
--- The recordbar for music and my music
--- The snackline and the rumbling stops
--- The shuttle that will carry me
Home.
Home is where steps are summed,
Where poems, music, snacks
And carrying are one.
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