certain privileges.

photo by author.

Clinging to your name,
that’s all you own.
Random noises surround you
— — smells are intriguing.
And it’s the light you prefer,
although you’re practically blind.

And not aware of your identity.

And not aware of
the turnpike you’re on
or the liqueur store
that’ll soon be your saviour
or the gas station restroom
you’ll be using for purposes unintended.
Or the flatmates who’ll rob you,
recognition due and not granted,
wages earned and denied,
embraces coveted and not dispensed,
lay-bys rendered void,
vending machines vandalised,
phone numbers torn up,
tones of voice misinterpreted,
pleading taken for reproach.

Or clichéd palm trees
against puffs of white cloud
in a pristine blue
Venice Beach sky.