There’s nothing like a pubic hair
on the tissue box to tell you you’re home
and you peel off your socks like
the skins of little neck clams, throwing them
in opposite directions purposely so
they look just as worn and alone as you are.
There’s nothing like mold in the vegetable bin
that smells like home since you’ve been out
and dressed proper and all with dead ants
holding onto the tread of your shiny shoes
and a few let go onto your neighbor’s mauve carpet
but you stand on them chatting to Chicklets.
There’s nothing like eating eggs for a week
then deciding you only wanted eggs anyway
and at least you always have coffee and milk
and of course, butts, but the eggs seem to turn
the ceiling brown and your eyes yellow but
at least you’re home listening to mice sing a cappella.
At least you’re home, that’s the main point
til’ you run out of things or have to attend
a function of the public sort and then
you put on your shiny hair and brush your shoes
and buy Chicklets by the dozen, fixing to stuff
smokes in the grinning cellophane box to go out.