I have a set of keys
To 900ft. of carpets and walls.
I know how many steps to the bathroom,
How many people fit in these halls,
But knowledge isn’t home.
I have a bedroom with my paper name on the door
In a house somewhere too far out.
In a place that smells like your cigarettes and perfume,
Where the air tastes like strangers and doubt.
Papers and names don’t make home.
I have a gas tank and four tires
New brakes, and a new transmission.
But she came used and already trained,
And she starts up without my permission.
Mechanics built her body but didn’t build a home.
I have a gypsy whim to abide by
And a youthfulness unwilling to settle.
I miss believing in something permanent
I’m a gypsy who is too attached to you:
I'm the present tense of cars and keys that came and went.