There is a problem with the calendar.
Days flip by like cards from a deck
and years change number
without warning.
All those holidays circled in red
belong to people
that don't belong to you.
Your house is a shell
that the seasons bang against.
Frost scars the windows and
new growth strangles the rails.
Summer arrives
like an electric shock
while you wait,
shoulder to the thin wall,
for the worst to pass.
Outside is another country.
A foreigner, you eavesdrop on lives,
straining with the language,
smiling your incomprehension,
tiring easily.
|