I thought it
A perfect thing,
The answer
To your prayers,
When,
After years of my
Inhabitation
Of your house,
I would finally find
A home of my own;
Instead,
You disagree
Because you
Are not home
For weeks
At a time
And there are
The animals
Needing looking after.
I smile and call it
My "day job"
When I would come over
Every day
And take care of them
That depend upon us.
And you reply,
"What do you want to do?"
Now I am confused.
For years
I've harbored the belief
You wanted me gone.
What do I want?
Simply,
The peace of knowing
I belong.