The Kids home

It’s a bit like a scrap yard

But maybe it’s more like

A recycling centre

 

The Kids Home

Is a kind of waiting room

For kids who wait

They wait for something

They don’t know what

These are the kids

Looked after by the state

 

The kids are different

To the ones with homes

They live their lives in

This liminal space

Waiting to be welcomed

By the human race

 

When they arrive at the home

With their black bags of stuff

They learn to fit in

Take the smooth with the rough

 

Friendly adults try to fulfill

The parental role

Like a family

Without the soul

A pretend mum

And dad

In cauduroy pants

Wafting in clouds

Of patchouli oil

 

But really they are just

Recycling staff

Trying to salvage

The good from the bad

Helping to sort through

The happy and sad

Doing their best

To make everyone laugh

 

The kids in the home

Are sad and lost

They’ve been through a lot

Their lives have come at a cost

Often these kids

Face the world alone

 

They do not connect

With the homely kids

It’s like being stuck

On a cross line

On the telephone

 

It’s not that they

Don’t have plenty to say

It’s just that they speak

A strange dialect

It’s not the one spoken

By the popular crowd

The ones who are always

So loud and proud

 

The kid from the home

Spent the weekend

Looking for a potential

Home

A happy home

To call their own

Although, deep down

They know

They will Never

Really

Truly

Belong

 

C.K. 22