Do I call this wreckage place my home

All this stuff inside my Christmas stocking

~

All this debris from my father's nomadic life,

Paper and pens from trade shows

Diminutive packages with tiny soaps

And shampoos and toothbrushes from hotels

Little plastic magic tricks wrapped in shrink-wrap

Short pieces of metal bound together in clever ways

Brain teasers to be untangled.

The man I call Daddy,

Who takes me away and makes me feel awe

And love and terror;

To do or say the wrong thing would take away the sense of security we are inventing here out of necessity~

I'm crying because I want to go back to my mum's house

For some reason, my dad is crying for the same thing.