Home

For some, the road is home.
Not me.
Though content enough in solitude
my home is home.

Home is where I am known and loved.
At home I am known by different names
to those names I am given on the road.
On the road I am 'rep' and 'salesman' and 'manager';
at home I am 'Darling', 'Daddy', and 'Mate' (to my neighbours).

On the road, home is more my car
than another man's motel;
home is more the voice of friends on the phone
than strangers in the flesh.
On the road, home can be tasted in meals and heard in songs,
but is it really home? No.

Home is faces familiar, stains on the loungeroom carpet,
clover in the front lawn.
Home is a mattress that needs replacing
and a shower that still leaks - even after my attempts to fix it.

Home is where I can put up my weary feet.
Home is where I belong when my name is not 'business'.
Home is where the presence of my company logo means 'Daddy's home!'
Home is not the road, and the road is not home; home is home.