Grief Tourist

Stepping into unknown spaces,
Courting crumpled sheets,
Sporting effortless travelers’ look,
Settling between a sleep and snooze,
Listening to every creak, footstep,
Every drunken conversation across the street,
Loyally responding to midnight mails and messages,
Playing with puddles to walk past time,
Tiptoeing to a road still unprepared for me to step into.
Back home, sleeping in a makeshift bed in an ex-gym setting,
Damp walls bragging his weight records,
White sheets, pillows, Ipad blasting away with unknown tracks,
Remind me that what makes me today is what makes me not–
Regular is the biggest exception,
Work is home, while home a play tent!
So, I visit places that host my losses:
New England and England both,
Calling them home to justify closures,
When in reality, all I am is just a grief tourist,
Seeking out cafes, roads, parks to seal my memories
Becoming a distant story teller with attempted detachment,
Ignoring torn todays and tragic tomorrows,
Rushing to the last page, adding a dash of fiction,
Changing the tone to a publishable ending,
Through words waiving discomfort,
Through poems becoming correction pens…
Risking unfair erasures.