I am without a home,
no place to call my own,
no house made of no limestone,
no house in no street in Bayonne.
But I live like this to say,
that man needs no home on a good day,
that there is another way,
that does not include a house with a pathway.
I travel the world,
my footsteps trace all but the underworld,
have traveled on boats with sails unfurled,
and ropes on decks in circles, all curled.
And when I was born, a month too early,
my parents, their vision blurry,
when asked what they would name me, prematurely,
“Windell, for he is desperate to travel the world.”