Chris McCurry
Photo: Elvert Barnes
While I slept they wandered into a hug,
held the door for people drifting
in and out of hotel lobbies, flipped through every page
in the photography section at the public library.
Today they resent holding a fork
or accenting my words.
It’s almost like homesickness for the warmth
of my pockets, the cradle of my ribcage,
yet, tucked under one another,
they plan to strangle me tonight, unless
their demands are met.
2 comments so far ↓
Katerina // Feb 9, 2013 //
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