Another illness roils your lungs, you cannot believe how the after times come for you, but what is January if not a rug pulled out from under you. You light your therapy lamp, sign a lease for a small nook in Bushwick, return to the fifth-floor Nolita walkup where your hat currently hangs, lean into the comfort of having keys to New York City in your back pocket, they do a good job at replacing tickets, sometimes.
You were dragged around the world for so long, you thought you'd never know how to be still, how to set roots and sleep soundly.
Instead, it turned out, you can sleep wherever you close your eyes,
can belong wherever you have yourself a key.
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