I'm looking through the glass. . .

On the outside looking in,
it's a struggle to keep wandering memories
off of my cot at night.

If home is where the heart is
I have perched in an alley
cut a R.I.P. sign out of a cardboard box

and hoped it would keep me warm at night.
Falling into the burlap
where bad dreams go to die.

Weaving relations into nightmares
and then having the nerve
to complain

that it keeps me awake.
No memories,
just worn down shoes

three shirts
and a hat
that never quite fit

These days, I want my heart back
but wouldn't know what to do with it
if God spit it up.