See this table, under light that shines like kerosene aside a darkened window?
I welcome it like home for it brings with it something familiar in the feel of varnished wood, wet with the dewy beads that slide down the side of my water glass.
The dark jungle springs from the shadows outside, but a warm gathering of fellowship inside pushes it back until it feels as far away as the sandy shore.
A musical commotion of conversations bounce off the walls of a few small rooms.
I know not what they say- these foreign guests in the home I’ve crept into like the hermit crab inside a stranger’s shell.
Like twitching, lilting stones they toss and turn upon the sand, always just a bit at home and a bit more on the move.
Somewhere far away from hermit crabs dancing about on the sand, and jungles with the jagged shapes of palms and vines,
sits my grandmother’s kitchen table under kerosene light.
Everywhere, I bring my home.