Write a poem or short story about someone who has lost or is about to lose their home.
No point in making friends anymore. We're moving again.
Wonder what city we'll be passing through next. We're nomads.
At this point, we no longer fully unpack. No point. We leave almost as soon as we arrive.
An unsettling quiet has a hold on us as we pack up the cars.
The neighbors peek through their windows at us. We tried to leave when most people would be at work.
The bright red "FOR SALE" sign swayed slightly in the breeze.
Sun was shining, the birds were chirping and my little sister was fighting back tears.
She had stupidly made a friend. I told her not to.
One last look-through to make sure we didn't leave anything essential behind.
Ha. As if. We never have anything we'd consider essential.
My little sister and I got into the back of the van and waited.
I could hear them arguing. Moving Day always got them upset.
SLAM! Doors close and we're off to find another new home we'll eventually leave.