Tonight's Poet Corner: Nomad

Nomad
by Belinda Roddie

This was not my bus stop
two days ago. I've started living by
the Friedman Street overpass since
it started storming, and I'm too
tired to make a fort out of my old
coat like I used to. Somehow,

I don't shiver as much as the night
before. An old man offered me
his transit ticket, though I think
he was expecting me to seek some
legitimate shelter - not a cold bunker
beneath a concrete canopy.

I used to ride buses more often,
when my wife and I visited
my mother on weekends. I remember
she always smelled like lavender
and dusty crochet kits. She was fond
of the candles and the fraying balls

of yarn. Sometimes, I wonder if
she was part cat, the way she stowed
herself among the strings and paper
constellations in her mobile home.
Now I hide under tarps when I can
find them, until the cops corner me

and kick the last of my eroding teeth
in. My last bus stop led me to a hotel
where my wife had overdosed on her
last bottle of sorrow. I think she knew
the rain was coming. Lucky for her,
she managed to stay dry.