every time I run away – I find I’m still carrying me in my backpack 
the window, black sky, lavender, sheep, and rain 

through the smell of urine
through vagrants with amputated limbs and the mean children 
             in the train station
through all the snooty girls in the long distance bus
I reach the kitchen
seated on a stool
like in a pool when it’s scorching outside

my back up against the fridge
we float through smoke, through alcohol fumes, and weave 
           our safety net 

we wait for the rain to start and ruin our plans
we listen to the birds
it’s more than a simple comfort
it’s something essential and warm 
and we have our hosts to thank for it

the next morning, groggy from the trip,
while the flow of prickly individuals moves uniformly towards work 
through traffic lights
I catch a whiff from the crowd of olive palmolive

when I, too, had a kitchen where we’d gather with friends
the two of us would dance around our guests
and we’d make the air around them as soft as possible
they needed that, that’s why they came 

I find a quiet spot to drink my coffee
on the terrace
I hadn’t noticed when I’d started crying