The Home Poem

“Home is where the heart is.”

At least, that’s what they say.

But my heart is in so many places

it doesn’t know where to stay.

My heart is with my parents,

my brother, and even their cat.

We eat, and talk, and watch TV,

at the table or couch we sat.

Even if we cannot visit

I call them every night

to talk and laugh from my couch

until it’s time to turn off the light.

My heart sighs with relief

when I first walk through the door

and sink into a chair

after dropping my bag on the floor.

Then I hear the pitter patter

of the little dog I love so dear

as he runs and jumps to see me

and bounces off my rear.

And he cuddles by my feet

when I watch TV or read a book

and sometimes I lift the blanket

at his little face to look.

My heart is in my bed,

when next to my husband I wake.

He smiles, kisses, and yawns

and I in his arms he takes.

We get out of bed just to pee

and open our dog’s crate door,

and crawl under the covers and cuddle

for just five—or fifteen—minutes more.

My heart is in my desk chair

because I love my work and play.

I teach at the same campus I learned

the worth of good work in a day.

My heart seems in various places

where I tend to sit my rear.

It isn’t just a coincidence

because, at this point, it’s clear

that when again they ask me

where my home is, I’ll remind:

“Home is where my butt is,

because my heart’s not far behind.”