Hot, humid air hits hard against winterwear
As we exit the airconditioned aircraft.
Cool, crowded chaos, collecting cases.
And there’s music, stringy music.

‘Welcome,’ smiles the porter, the taxi driver,
We mutter, utter irrelevant instructions.
Distracted by wet armpits, incongruous winter boots.
And there’s music, static radio music.

Home is where the Heart is, they say,
My heart beats well, deep within me.
So, my home is in my body, I guess.
It comforts, tends, and nourishes me.

My home is in my mind as well,
It makes sure I stay strong,
It helps me into any room, anywhere,
And feel like I belong.

‘What shall we have for breakfast then?’
I ask him as we wake.
‘A fat cheese omelette on its own
With strawberry milkshake.’

He rustles up lunch, while I work on Zoom,
Then sort the mid-day post.
I take a break, as I watch him make,
Some golden cheese-on-toast.

Another blistering domestic fight,
Her front door slams, and she takes flight.
In her pyjamas and slippers, into the night.
The sound of the row gives me a fright.
Do I go after her? Would that be right?

My own peace shattered, I put down my book,
And peer out of my window to take a look.
Then a crash! From next door, my own house shook.
I cower back in bed, my safe little nook.
But more loud noises, was what it took.