Fifth time in five years and like always
days dragged their feet then sprinted,
until with the shrivelled fruit of August
I am sweating boxes, dripping saucepans
to another crater of this city.
Heat bears down, desk fan churns but
missing this place? Its panorama of bins,
the guy who daily examines his dick, thick pink
sky icing slender terraces – that comes and it goes.
Worst of all the kind of stomach pit,
brain ache missing right before you leave
a place and you’re packing up, boxed in
by things that don’t much matter, looking out
of a window you’ve never even cleaned.