Hearth

I'm in the auto repair shop, but home

is where my journal is, on my lap.

This chair, though made of iron,

is high-backed, and even rocks.

All the furniture is tacky

but it does not matter;

my journal is cloth bound,

its words shimmery and snug.

I have always functioned well in situations

that would be the bane of many, as in,

hours of waiting in sterile auto-body shops

full of terrible smells, thick huffing

grease-stained men, bald cement floors

and smeared translucent windows.

I wait well, am fine killing time in others'

offices, fashioning little sculptures

of gem clips, scribbling about worker bees

as unfortunate as I, escaping occasionally

to the oasis of a water fountain, or fresh air

to foul with chained cigarettes.

I can wait endlessly for rides outside markets,

for late busses or subway trains, in doctors' offices,

as passenger on day-long drives or in airports

or especially on planes, enjoying pilllowy clouds,

the play of sun upon their morphing forms.

For me, displacement has nothing to do with

abandoning the warm fires of home, but rather

sitting in the icy absence of paper and pen.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2008