Home is where the heart is,
Far from the bustling marts, ‘tis.
Looking all those years ago,
Moving to-and-fro,
An opportunity smiled upon me like the radiant sun,
And I instantly knew our search was done.
It resulted in a warm meet-and-greet,
With the friendly neighbours of my vibrant Bloor Street.
Because I could not run for home,
It did kindly run for me.
Home, home, everywhere,
Yet not a place else to be.
Am I, the resident, unsafe, A stranger to relief?
Nay, the resident is safe beyond belief.
Is the resident content?
Must the neighbouring children be discontent?
Disconnected from the world that calls to them, invites them
To the whimsical, luscious green park,
that smells of freshly-cut grass, pollinated flowers,
And the sweet aroma of springtime lavender?
Is the doorstep not more uninviting?"
The search of friendship is just the thing,
To get me wondering if the doorstep is invitatory.
Such a park makes me feel at home.
Home is where I may roam, frolicking in my little dome.
My family laughs, dances, and rejoices,
Unlike our static little garden gnome.
A shrewd little thing, such a creature is,
Hiding away from interaction,
Being outdoors, yet partaking in no outdoor action.
Hot-tempered and secluded are they,
Offering welcome to nobody.
There is always a home for them too, however,
Offered by at least somebody.
Pay attention to the shelter, for example,
The shelter is the most welcoming facility of all.
Its warmth stretches a mile wide,
Reaching ears with its inviting call.
Never forget the welcome and hospitable hospital,
Except for its lack of the neighbourhood kids’ basketball.
“Boing!” “Boink!” “Whump!” “Thump!”
The rhythm of the bouncing, bodacious, bold-hearted basketball
Is an energetic call to all
To partake in the most eventful of games
In the court which out front of the building I constructed with my friends,
To ensure the summer fun never ends in this place that is part of my home.
But alas, nothing trumps the comforting, persuasive, pervasive call of our houses,
And all go home at the end of the day.
Back inside, up one of the dual elevators, and to their families
Living inside their designated cubicles
In a complex at the end of Bloor Street.
In a complex at the end of Bloor Street.
A place which I can call home is not so complex,
Much like a simple pile of unwritten bank cheques.
My home is where my family energetically conveys their voices.
My home is where my family rejoices.
My home is where my loyalties lie,
Without a home, my soul painstakingly cries.
Not a slice of cheese, nor a slice of Italian meat,
Not some sweets, nor a Dutch treat,
Can make me feel as at home
As I am with my friends and family of the Bloor Street.
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