Stranger, Betrayer, Surveyor

It takes minutes every morning, head on pillow, awareness dodging, to get a sense of place.  Checking in with touchstones, city, hotel, activities. Opening the drapes to see alien landscapes, darkness, weather, dropping coffee in the machine, searching for toothpaste, cold, plugging in the iron to warm it in time for pressing, looking in the mirror for solace from the one true known person that stranger, betrayer, surveyor. Calculating time zones, meeting times, quick bite, coffee on the corner, then off to kick the shit out of whatever comes next.

© Poem Fix 2013

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