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.”