we take care of the orphans at our gates



foundling children and changelings mostly

late of rusted iron rails

and so much gritty dust



rat’s nest hair and tattooed hands

threadbare jackets and torn teddy bears



tear-stained cheeks 

everywhere



I knelt by one of the little ones



(her mud-splashed shoelaces were a tangled mess

that took a proper spell to unravel)



and I asked where she’d come from

just making conversation 



she said she’d been on her own

“forever and ever”

        and ever and ever

snatched from her cradle, sold across the sea



then she added, those tears pooling, looking

as downcast as she could be

apologetic even, that she couldn’t answer me



“I don’t remember where my home is,” she mumbled so low



“home is wherever people care about you…” I replied



with a steady timbre, smiling

and with my forefinger, I tipped 

her torn teddy’s chin right up



(taking needle and thread from my pocket

I’d soon sew him back up)



I promised her fiercely, while licking the string, 



“home is here”