He is not a cliche as he does another set of twenty
Push-ups before pushing himself away from the cold
Floor and onto the squeaky leather couch. He grabs a
Business magazine and begins to read.

He is not another piece of paper as he scribbles his
Name, date of birth, and previous employers on
Another application, the fifth one this year. Perhaps
He'll stick to this one for more than three weeks.

He is not an orphan as he rests a hand on the
Cold marble marker, knees bent so his eyes never
Stray from the name of his mother. He blinks, once,
Twice and fights the tears threatening to spill.

He is not a freak as he stands alone on the playground,
Hands tucked into his two sizes too big pair of jeans, or
As he and another boy are trapped in the dark house. He
Covers the younger boy from the harsh flames.

He is not a nomad as he packs his bag with worn t-shirts
And his mother's burial flag and a toothbrush he received
At the Daisy Inn in Texas two months ago. He walks out
The door after the agent in the dark suit.

He is home as she unlocks the door and drops her
Bag on the floor, sifting through the fridge filled with
Coca-Cola bottles just for her. He smiles and slides
His arms around her waist.

He is home, and she is the porch light, gleaming
Through the night to remind him he is not alone.