Finding Home

“A drive to Bunnings”
is one way a friend described Adelaide
and I laughed and said
that was exactly the reason
why in a city obsessed with house
renovations, I’ll never call it home.

“Or you could live in Melbourne”
said another, sarcastically,
though the first six years
I did. And though it’s stupid,
nostalgic retrogression
perfumes every street corner.

Sydney’s out of the question.
Who wants to show their out-of-town
friends a coat hanger for the thrill
of living an hour from the centre
in order to save enough money
to get out of there?

While Brisbane and Perth seem
- at least on the surface –
prosperous and sunny, I get
the feeling I would only end up
questioning why the hell am I living
in Brisbane or Perth?

If home is where family
resides, then these days home
is a dry creek and best mates
with the Territory’s bomb squad
amid Sturt Desert Pea and
my parent’s second-hand caravan.

If home is where my heart
lies then I’d be lying if I said
it wasn’t in the house I keep my books in.
But that would also mean it’s
in several other states and countries and in that
sunset over the desert above the Nile.

If home is elusive to me
I’m glad it fuels a spirit of
adventure rather than fleet-footed
escape from my problems.
One thing I’ve learnt is no matter
where you are they’ll find you.

I can see ‘home’ on the top right
of the keyboard and I wonder
if I press it... will I find it?

The cursor shifts back a line.


© Sam Rodgers 2009