I think we can all agree
that it’s a terrible conceit,
a self-important conflation,
when he says he feels like
a refugee just because
he sometimes sleeps on the couch
and has to move his piles
of composition books and crossword puzzles
and tomorrow’s running clothes
from room to room, corner to corner.
He wraps his precious self-respect
in a tattered blanket of ego
and clutches it to his chest
as he squeezes on board
the leaky vessel of another moonless crossing.