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.