I’m deathly ill
because my pseudo-home(s)
the ones I’m stuck in
are killing me.
It’s weird reading Collings and Cummings
in the same way it’s weird to live out of dufflebags
house to house, and week to week.
It’s like being on a train
that constantly jumps off tracks and onto others.
I’m sitting on red plastic bleachers
at a basketball practice for middle schoolers
who play in an elementary school gym
and I’m trying to find rhythm
in all of the dribbling, disoriented basketballs.
The woman next to me is playing a game on a ebook
and the old man next to me is playing Sudoku in pen
and everything is somehow more frustrating
when I can’t get home
to take care of my beautiful, lovely, matryoshka doll fiancee.