You can call it that,
that brick foundation in Chicago's womb,
that sixth floor complex under the red sun,
that quaint nook on the north side of the city,
that silent night stepping through Michigan Ave,
that resting place on the shore under a hallow summer moon,
that classroom filled with people who recall my name,
that apartment where those familiar faces became jocularly alive,
that old home within Pilsen back when nothing was broken,
that secluded fort my father built to keep monsters away,
that night driving while music blasted down western,
that Metra ride to Naperville nostalgic at what's there,
that midnight showing where our eyes met without care,
that warmth as the brittle midnight sank outside into dawn,
that comfort knowing nothing means everything as our hands fawned,
Home.
Yes, you can call it that,
and they are places I revisit again and again.
