My body, my hotel
has long been looking
for a home. No more
rented rooms in Hiltons
getting room service
of the spirit, or workshop-weary
Holiday Inns - now I'm looking
for a place to hang my stockings,
lay my head, a kitchen to feed
my soul that is mine. All
mine. A place I own, not
clean and decorate, reserve
for others.

In dreams these days
I am underdressed:
dancing naked in public
or wearing my nightgown
to funerals - lost, but trying
to find home. The coat
I hang in the hotel closet
is orange, and isn't mine;
the funeral is elsewhere.

My body can't be measured
by the rented room any longer.
Now it's time to sign
a mortgage. Practice owning.
Call my body home.