Seoul is in a puddle on this

after-rainy night and I am like a child in

the pink gumboots I once kept in my cupboard

for times like this.


My reflection in the subway glass says I

exist I

exist. I

missed my stop writing this poem and

nobody saw.


In between new strangers in new coats,

I wish for your arms,

our street. Old wood that creaks:

‘There’s no leaving this place.’

Goodbye, house. How

far away I am from you -

from myself -

tonight.


A prodigal's son,

my mind sometimes misses trains; flights -

even with both feet on the ground I don't notice

the puddle until I feel the wet in my socks.

Pink gumboots don't fit in my suitcase,

but I can't help going out after the rain:

a kind of liberation.


Did I live even one day in this place?

And how to know, except by the odd familiarity?

A street name or coffee shop, perhaps,

to which I point with resolution and say

(to no-one in particular)

‘This is my home now.’

This is my reflection in the subway glass and

I know I am here even though I

missed my stop and

nobody saw.

I was there once and I got the oat milk latte.


How strange are these things we cling to;

how fickle the lies of belonging as I pack my bags.

Goodbye, house. Will

you ever fit on the luggage scale and

is that me I see in the window pane?