A poem about staying in someone else's house, away from home on business which I do often. |
Airbnb This evening I am walking home alone. And wondering if I'm looking out of place. My briefcase holds my wallet and my phone, A laptop and an old sunglasses case, A jangling bunch of unfamiliar keys A moleskine notebook and a crumpled tissue. I walk in the cooling shade of friendly trees And nod to the woman selling the Big Issue. The lock is stiff. Eventually I pass into the flat, close and bolt the door, kick off my shoes, and pour myself a glass of tap-water. My feet are hot and sore. The bed sheets are a curious shade of pink I'd never choose. The fridge looks very new, the worktop wiped, and in the kitchen sink. A piece of lettuce leaf, the only clue that someone else has recently been here, and eaten salad, made a pot of tea. The owner or a guest I've no idea. I speculate on what she'd think of me, browsing the shelves for books I haven't read, using her towels and her ancient loo, plumping up the pillows on her bed. Tomorrow I will have to buy shampoo. It's quiet in the house. No voices call To ask me what's for dinner, where's my keys? I am in limbo, wandering down the hall. Tonight I can do anything I please. |