the childhood home has become the settling place

You who have rooted yourself, caught that special someone who put a ring on your finger and filled you up with babies: you have not strayed far from the path your young parents trod. You are in the settling place, and you drive a five-ton car. You are floating behind the dashboard, your infants as ants strapped neatly in the back seats.
I am happy that you feel accomplished, but too much time spent in your presence forces shame into my mind. I met myself first, and got to know her well. I did not play the game, sing the song, and rope someone along. May I come to live in the settling place? No, for I posess an empty car, a quiet night absent of hungry/wet/uncooth children, and bare hands to hold. I may visit, thinking fondly in my mind of the settling place, but I am yet swimming in the air.
A fire is burning in my belly, and so my travels perpetuate. I am as settled as a summer breeze, alive and embodied in the blazing heat of an asphalt-boiling afternoon. The people retreat beneath trees for solace, seeking the relief I too seek.