Unbelonging

My body is the extension of my thoughts,

My roots are planted

Nowhere.

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 

Nothingward. 

The fire is leaping in the fireplace; glasses are refilled with

Mulled wine,

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

Elseward.

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

And

Shackles.