Home

There are somethings about home
That aren't poetic
You won't find them in Coleridge
And I doubt they crossed Wordsworth's mind.

But home is
Making chicken wraps in just your pants
It's nothing fancy, or eloquent
It's just knowing that you can cook in your pants
And no one knows or cares.

Home is
Crashing out at the end of the day
Doesn't even have to be a long day
You could've been at work for one hour
But you went in for that hour
And home is proud of you.

Home is
Washing bedsheets and wrestling to get them back on again
It's about stretching the bottom sheet to its limits
It's about getting lost in duvet covers
It's about napping after the ordeal
It's about smiling at fresh sheets after a shave
It's about getting under them and watching a film you've seen 49 times.

Home is
Cooking your own meals
Even if they're crap, they're your meals
Setting up Christmas trees, and wrapping up eating salami,
They're about being with your loved one, about them being your home,
But about setting up your books on the bookshelf,
About looking through photo albums and sighing,
About being at home, sweet, safe, and sound.