My key ring is full and so is my heart.

I hope you know what it’s like
to walk through a door and be put at ease.

When you don’t have to knock,
because the door’s always open
and the air says you’re safe here
in the scent of their laundry detergent.

To stumble over shoes, bigger-every-year,
making your way to your seat on the couch,
and at the table.

You know which drawer holds the silverware,
which cabinet hides the towels,
and where the good snacks are.

The sound of their footsteps mean nothing
only that you’re welcome here, and you’re wanted.

It’s not your house, but it is home.