I've lost count of the homes that I have lost.
One time too many I've been driven out.
On futile search my substance to exhaust,
In barren soil to sow my crop of doubt.
I am no longer young. My years have worn
Onto the age I ought to put down root,
Or else accept my roots are all stillborn
And never may my life look to bear fruit.
Perhaps if I were wise, I'd wed the road.
I'd walk the night's limininal liberty.
No debt to shoulder, no rent to be owed,
As any other vagrant pauper, free.
I should not. I can not. My family
Still needs a home. Perhaps they still need me.
The first was my grandmother's house. I am
No longer welcome there since I am gay.
The same goes for my parent's house. The trees
I planted there, I'll never see bear fruit.
Two houses on the mountain shoulders were
Perforce surrendered. Each time to a straight
Couple who, landlords said, needed it more.
A third down in the valley of the rose
A job was lost, and it slipped out of reach.
Since then there have been five, at least, I think,
Always the same result: we meet their price
Only to find that someone else will pay
But half as much again, then flip or rent.
And we, who only wish to live in it
Have wealth enough at last, but are forbid
From spending it upon the home we need.
Tomorrow I'll begin the search anew.
Comb through the listings. My search widen, too.
Because what else is there for me to do?
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