I only have fun
at other people’s homes.
I steal their friends,
I steal their memories,
and I steal their shampoo to
use their showers at five in the
still drunken morning.

There are dirt clods on the
tiled floors,
archives of another eventful night
I only pretended to be a part of.

I let the scalding water pound on my back
until I’m chapped.
I don’t think about water or heating
bills because they are not my burden this morning,
and I cry like a frustrated child
because I wish feverishly not to be a guest,
to be a resident.

To be a nomad
is to only observe the silver lining,
but I want the cumulus in-between.