A Box To Call My Own

Across the street under a lamp bright

is a tiny campsite of one.

With hair spun and woven tight

she sits and laughs for fun.

Her house, her home, her tent

--rent free-- is always light and fresh;

Its easily moved and improved with tape

to fix its shape after rain.

The walls a thick mesh of brown

paper cardboard, cord and dirt,

she lives inside with just the shirt

on her back and a small pack.

It may be not much, just a small shack,

but she wouldn't give it back,

not for anything.