Traveling

I think you know what this feels like.

This is my home. I've set my heart to let this little nook be mine.

I'm done with traveling and wandering to pass my idle time.

My curtain up, and thrilling in the wind that flows from door to door—

Such a sweet wind—and now my carpets sleeping on my dusty floor

From Italy and India, from Russia and from many more,

Simply to rest forever more on this infernal dusty floor.

Well, never mind. The wood will do. It groans beneath my heavy gait,

But it is wood, like all those wild forests. It will compensate,

And that oak bookshelf filled with all my ancient paperbacks I've kept

Against my better judgment, for the shrieks I've howled and tears I've wept

Still echo in those pages, even as they rustle in the gentle breeze

That flows from door to door and tries to set my wild heart at ease

On lonely days when I'd feel better if I had a wicked friend

Or when I have a restless mood and feel this pit-stop has no end.

That wind that flows from door to door, from desert east to ocean west,

Reminds me of those distant lands where food is good and water blest—

Confound it all! This dirty floor! These books all staring down at me!

This crazy breeze! These lazy rugs! Oh would the world just let me be!