My roots are planted
The freedom of unbelonging is my luggage.
I move against the stream of time, push against the flow of crowds
In public spaces,
Heaving uphill while being pulled
The fire is leaping in the fireplace; glasses are refilled with
Everyone in the room is red-cheeked, words fly in the air from
Mouths to ears.
The children on the floor
Play as all children do.
Today I am here, tomorrow I am gone;
Planes, buses, trains, cabs—vehicling me with efficiency of some degree or another.
Today I am here, yet my mind is already transported
I want to stay here, I want with all my might; it
Is the damn legs that won’t cease pacing, the cities
That keep changing.
The luggage of unbelonging is my freedom