The Heresy of Home

I love that familiar tone poem of exhaust 
from the buses in Chicago. I recognize
the scent of the enemy I know. 
My chosen home for adulthood remains 
this place my father called, "that hellhole" 
for the hurt I'm sure he felt, as I'd leapt away
from what I could not maintain: the unspoken 
stain of shame, knowing I did not glove into 
the prevailing frame. A home must be chosen 
and new, provide a landing place 
from which to form one's own milieu, 
thus pluck away what others expect, 
deflect the heresy of home. 

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