I would love to call even a dilapidated house my home

but I’m simply a vagrant

(though I do prefer “wanderer” more).

I lack roots, and I cherish nowhere, so I tend to merely roam.

 

It’s not as pitiful as the picture paints

since, I tend to see what many miss.

I can boast about seeing new-born red speckled crabs

scrambling for the shore line, scuttling like little saints.

 

Along my journeys countless chubby children (tiny in size),

have ogled in wonder at my tattered overalls

and seashell strewn chain that hangs delicately on my neck.

Their eyes widening with astonishment and envy at the glee hidden in my eyes.

 

It’s a life like no other- wearisome yet bewitching.

They miss out on fiery skies blazing with salmon pink and orange

and the devious secrets, frigid winds sometimes whisper.

Textbooks don’t teach languages, like the ones rustling palm trees speak.

 

People don’t know the feel of a hard canvas tent

whose motherly comfort protects you, from the cruel elements.

While they dine on “instant meals”, I eat zesty tropical fruits,

a bite so divine and saccharine. A present.

 

I use red cherries for lipstick and roasted almond butter for cream.

My perfumes, hand crafted from chestnuts and Plumerias

I have caught and cooked sardines over wooden fires,

Every bite so scrumptious and tender. A daydream.

 

It’s not so grueling as one makes it to be.

After all, I have seen an iridescent butterfly emerging from a cocoon

and have touched a baby giraffe’s nose.

I can tell apart a Golden-headed Manakin’s lullaby. Indeed, a beauty.

 

And when the night settles in,

the clouds that float aimlessly like deflated balloons,

act like soft pillows for my heavy head to rest.

The stars shining light as if I were an angel- a Bedouin