I exist in another place, too.
There, I draw in the dirt with a twig
and somebody hides me in their palms
so the blowing winds wouldn’t snuff me out.
There, I’m in no rush
when I leave home, I place my watch in the ashtray
with the buttons, the batteries and the bolts.
There, I don’t turn into something I’m not.
I have no shield, I have no shoes
and I don’t bleed from my body, but from other places.
I have a shared present and future
only with the bedtime story read by a mother to her child,
who, having fallen asleep, finishes it in a dream.
When I reach for the words,
I reminisce of a little child reaching for a buried grenade
believing it to be a small turtle.
Slowly, I realize that reality is but a blanket, too short,
leaving bare either my head
or my feet.
I exist in another place, too.
Right here.