smokerings

[ Wednesday morning, 7 a.m ]

my whole life is not here.
for which i am grateful,
leaving not-home is easy,
thoughtless.
airports are airports,
traffic jams, not wombs.
falling out of touch
simpler
as those we're suddenly in-
touch with smoothly
take over the hours.
i am grateful, un-rooted
un-being in this city.
and now it seems
the whole world could feel the same:
long itineraries of
not-home, sans the
thickness, gnawing desire to
be somewhere.
i could be
not-anywhere at all.