Maybe I live in the gates that lead to outbound international flights. Maybe that is home.
And do I feel more comfortable at the departures or at the arrivals?

How Many Michals Does it Take to Change a Lightbulb?

And the lamp was on
Darkening up the room
And I sat, alone
Looking for the switch
To turn off the darkness

The dog may be wonderful prose, but only the cat is poetry

Poetry has done enough when it charms, but prose must also convince

She was still hugging the cat. "Poor slob," she said, tickling his head, "poor slob without a name. It's a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven't any right to give him one: he'll have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other: he's an independent, and so am I. I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together. I'm not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it's like." She smiled, and let the cat drop to the floor. "It's like Tiffany's," she said.

[...]

It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany's, then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name.

He said it was better to belong where you don't belong than not to belong where you used to belong, remembering when you used to belong there.