TRADING PLACES:

She rides in the night bus leaving Dallas at 1:00am, 
lap-top on her legs surrounded by people she’s learned 
to love. She slips her in-ears in & the world recedes, 
leaves the confines of the bus through a screen. Reaching 
out, she throws her name, picked up in Essex at the kitchen 
table. A beer & a lap-top is a space she can call her own, 
as the silence of the fields is mine. I’m leaving Dallas 
concealed in my cocoon, wrapped in a hood of virtual bloom 
& she’s buttering toast, waiting for the kettle, watching 
the sun arc across corn stubble remembering who she is. 

(K)