Where would I go if I couldn’t go home? Would I find the means to travel the world, a vagabond with no tether?
Might I show up in postcards mailed from exotic destinations, wish you here, but secretly glad you stayed behind?
I’m afraid I’d live in a marginal world, on the edge of respectability, begging scraps from passing cars.
If I couldn’t go home, I would never build a new one. I lack the proper tools, but perhaps I’d find a better one.