Summer 2002
Patrick Donnelly
After a Move

These are not my keys,
this is not my door.
I'm so tired, I could sleep anyplace,
but this is not my bed.
This is not my street,
not my face,
not my dirt
where someone's hand
touched the wall again and again
to help themselves down the stairs.
These are not my eyes,
not my leaves, not my light,
nothing like the view I knew.
These words are not mine,
none of this food is mine,
and when I asked for the kind of sandwich I liked
the man behind the counter said simply: