Home was a hotel bed,
a pillow against the car window,
a reclined airplane seat.
Home was a bustling city,
a farm town in Illinois,
a borrowed house in the suburbs of Nevada.
Home was the other kids whose Dad's traded a 9 to 5 for a golf club,
who I hoped were staying in the same hotel as me.
Home was running through the hotel lobby, playing hide and seek in the stairwells,
pouring artificial mix into the waffle maker, and watching cartoons in bed together,
as we wished each others Dad's good luck!
Home was a feeling that followed me from car to airplane,
from golf course to hotel bed.
Home was always changing,
always looking different,
but always feeling the same.