The road underneath the black hatchback passes in a blur of asphalt and faded white lines
Each line that passes by ticks like a second hand on the clock
Inevitable
Interminable
A countdown to something I don't know, nor want to find out
A countdown to comfort
To an argument
To embraces and laughter and tears and sorrow
They say home is where the heart is
I don't know enough to contradict them, whoever They are
I climb the twenty-two steps up to the apartment overhead
I counted them myself, every trip I made between
In the hectic back and forth of moving
Twenty-two steps, chipped forest green paint faded where the carpet was pulled up
And wood bowed under the wear of hundreds
Thousands
Of footfalls passing over them
In the years before I came to call this place "home"
If home is where the heart is, then why this dichotomy?
The people I love most welcome me as I leave the vehicle
I'm wrapped in warm arms
Kissed by partners
Left with joyous heartache as I know my time with them is brief
We talk and joke
Tell stories together
We've heard them all a hundred times before but will always beg to hear them again
I think it was Sartre who said,
"If you're lonely when you're alone, you're in bad company"
And it makes me wonder
Twenty-two steps creak and groan with every shifting weight
The key turns in the lock
And I am greeted with meowing cats who rub against my legs
Whether it's out of love or hunger is up for debate
I cook a meal, sit and eat it in front of the TV
I leave it on so I still have company
And sleep on half a queen-sized bed
"Bad company" indeed
My phone buzzes and I wake
To see your smiling face
Contained in a bubble on my screen
And for a few sweet moments
This place feels like home at last
About the Creator
Kit Olsen
Queer poet, short fiction author, and long-time storyteller of all varieties. Feel free to stick around and see if anything catches your fancy!
Discriminate
Authors note: I originally published this with no explanatory note, after a conversation with my partner in which we both agreed that no one would think these were my views, it was sufficiently over the top for it to be evidently a caricatured collection of some of the "microaggressive" things that can be said by people of one race to those of another. And lets be clear, I had in mind a white man talking to a black man in a country in which white is the majority. I wrote this after a conversation I had at work about the idea of microaggressions, in which we thought about who they were micro for - for the speaker, each of these comments may feel "micro", for the receiver, maybe not. I chose some of these lines carefully and deliberately, most of them are things I have heard said. But I wanted to come back and make absolutely clear that this is not a poem representing my views. We thought I didn't need to, but perhaps its not actually so very over the top as a caricature. Perhaps its a little too close to the bone. Perhaps that I would assume otherwise is in itself an illustration of my privilege.
By Hannah Moore2 days ago in Poets
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During my time in Nagoya I worked and lived at the strangely famous hostel and café Nagonoya. With its chequered floors and florescent lighting it felt quite dated, but I think that was supposed to be part of the charm. The dorms were always fully booked on weekends with domestic tourists and there was always a buzz in the downstairs café. Camera crews were constantly in and out of the place interviewing the Japanese staff members who worked the café. I think it had something to do with the egg sandwiches. At least that was what was on most of the merchandise, except for that one dishcloth with the owner’s face on it. Was I being employed by a local celebrity?
By Susanna Kiernan6 days ago in Wander
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