klara[dot]nz

Change of clothes, keys on the hook,

Wallet in the same place- reliable.

Twisting to check for things left-behind,

A cyclone in the trinkets on the floor.

Grab that bracelet, his pocket radio

My inheritance, to listen to others

In the absence of my father.

Cans of tuna already in the backpack.

This is the last I'll be in this place-

Quick, before the thoughts,

Hope, like a dagger in the back,

Tells me this won't happen again:

"Bring a rock, some bundle from before"

Shoes on, clips to hold my zephyr,

There, in a rush, I was gone.