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Pile
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Touched by Comfort
It's the same place on a map
But most things have turned over.
Buildings repurposed, money exchanged
Between floating hands.
I thumb through, looking for something flammable
But I can't rely on getting handed a book of matches every time.
I wish it were direct where things can go
But only pictures, always pictures.
Covered in dust that I ate from a bag at a place we bought gas.
Hobbling into childhood again.
He'll thank me for my blessing,
But I barely keep in touch.
It's the same place on a map
But most things have turned over.
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