Not Again

As a child, I played house
inside moving boxes.

Some people can’t go home
for the first time.

Somewhere along the way,
I decided if I can

stand still
long enough, then.

Being home = fear of another move.

Or, some people become too tired
to pack another box.

And the narrator of my dreams
becomes unreliable as

the voice in my head when I walk
into another morning.

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