life in transition

Drifter

You taste bitter, and restless;
like black, 25-cent diner coffee,
and menthol cigarettes bummed curbside,
and six months of empty hostels in Mèxico.
And you eat grapes still filmy with pesticides,
and curse only in foreign tongues,
and can never finish a novel,
but will linger for hours on its final pages.
And you look perpetually windswept,
and keep photos in a suitcase under the sink,
and your body is always buzzing
like a manic insect caught in a lampshade.

And though you seek escape through open doors,
maybe you’ll someday find solace
in a closed one.