Home

I sing when I'm tired
But I'm tired of singing
So I decided to go home
With my tiny pack of stuff
And no seconds or spares
I'm at the airport
People kissing at the arrivals
And crying at the departures
Retreating figures are bad
My socks are wet
So I carry them with my boots
And make my barefoot way to the gate
I don't want to catch the flu
And so I flew
To that bridge where I had my first kiss
Red-brick yesterdays on one side
High-rises of tomorrow on the other
A constant companion in the river
That continually flows
I'm drenched in nostalgia, in wet socks
"You're home", he said once
"It's where you find your people", said mum
"Home is where the heart is", the internet agrees
Do I have that many homes?
What if it is right here though?
Where I find me, and warm socks