recycled cardboard

i wonder sometimes,
if i hold a sign up reading "home,"
scrawled on the torn off side of
the box your brother's speakers came in,
while standing on someone else's roadside--

boots unlaced,
hair undone,
insides untied--

where i'll end up these days?

it's not my intention anymore,
to figure out where hitchhikers will take me.

just to find home somewhere other than your kitchen table,
or on the extra bicycle your parents got, so visitors could join them on the bike trail at a moment's notice.
or in the extra toothbrush you kept around, or in knowing my favorite tea was always in your cabinet.

i have nightmares sometimes,
that i won't recognize anywhere.

someone's aunt will ask,
"sugar, what have you been up to these days?"
and i will pull my sweatshirt zipper up and down,
hoping that the length of my hair won't give anything away.
you know,
just
here
and there,
this and
that,
i guess.