“I Was Homeless Once”

I was homeless once—

not metaphor, but pavement,

the night’s breath stiff with diesel,

a borrowed coat that never quite closed.

The city’s lights were not for me,

they glittered for windows I could not enter,

for tables where bread was broken

without my name.

I learned the grammar of benches,

the syntax of doorways,

the long pause of hunger

that makes even silence ache.

And still, the body endures—

it finds a corner,

it waits for dawn,

it bargains with cold.

But there is another exile—

homeless in a palace without you.

Marble floors echo louder than alleys,

chandeliers mock with their excess of light.

Every room is furnished,

yet emptier than a street at 3 a.m.

The bed is wide,

but no voice answers the turning.

This homelessness of heart

is less spoken of,

yet more corrosive:

to be roofed, clothed, fed—

and still unsheltered.

I was homeless once,

and I survived.

But I would not wish

the palace-emptiness on anyone.

Better the cold stone

than the warm room

where no one waits.

.