The way your feet fit snug
to the end of this thrift-store couch,
who would dream you didn’t belong?
That’s how the stranger comes
to rest in this strange land –
like shrapnel encapsulated in flesh,
you only feel it when it rains.
Fucking hell how it rains!
Some days you wake to sun
afflicted by the bless-ed blindness
of the new day, a thin blue field
between you and the pinpoint stars
so far away you cannot really remember.
Traveller, the purring cat is the hum
of the Universe, the stripes on the cushion
are the years of your life. Don’t bother
to count, or even think about
the small black birds on the wing.
July 2, 2009
