Metaphor
(a Double-Etheree)
by Michael Escoubas

Home
is the
hunter, or
should I say, “I
am the one hunting
for a home?” a place to
call my own, a hermitage
where the world is calm because it
is composed of words so much stronger
than “be more, get more.” Where else can I be

who I am, naked in the world of words,
no angst allowed. Home is the hunter,
you say? I had no home before
poetry became my friend,
my alter-ego–yes,
my healing ointment,
and defender,
when winning
leaves me
cold.



 

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