Eighty-Three

home is
tapwater,

blue skies beyond reason,

because love is reasonless(ly)
always in supply and demand
and our doorbell hums with the dust particles surfing in the sunbeams

i like sitting the passenger seat and listening to the driver

tell me about today, tomorrow,
always and never. i relish

your voice through my much-dropped cellphone crackling clearly through my ear canal
and sometimes sparks of love
electronically tickle my cheek
through the words you speak

i like being home
but i never really left

we sleep,
closed eyes,
like semicircles or
crescent moons,

chocolate ice cream and

owl mugs of decaffeinated tea,

all this, yes, home is

the insurmountable feeling of oneness i feel as i stroll down the driveway