The front door slams shut
and the warmth of the heat flushes his cheeks.
The wine sloshes into the glass.
The purr of the zip sliding closed as the breeze is temporarily blocked.
Still too cold to take off his hat.
A tug of the ring pull to open the can.
The covers flap and shuffle in the wind.
He draws them over his rough stubble on his cold and weary body.
He reaches for another can.
Our ‘homes’ are so different but are we?
Anne Lamb (51) Palm Bay