The Comforts of Home

On the road and in air, luggage packed, 
I so long for the comforts of home.
These motels and the hostels' stained rooms
have dank walls, and the mattresses, foam.

Overwhelming my sense of repose
is annoyance of raucous events
of the tenants who selfishly chose
to insist they decry their laments. 

To be sure, I'd be home on my chaise,
likely reading a Grisham or Quinn,
taking comfort in each turn of phrase,
and forgetting when travels begin.

Purple martins have only to find
the next birdhouse to stay as they roam,
they're content without lives intertwined
with relaxing, small comforts of home.

Published in "Trappings of the Years" and "Eloquence"
by Jack Huber- All rights reserved

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