My last match fell in the snow.
I vanished, until over the horizon I recognized the distinct gait of someone I once knew.
I hid in a wood shed until they passed.
I drank from puddles, and ate insects.
There was no way of proving who you were. Your nation of origin became your
surrogate caregiver. You were dropped, drooling, on the embassy’s doorstep.
After days of wandering, half crazed, you came across some unknown peoples,
and your tongue was cut out.
You lost everything, your passport, your pocket money, your driver’s license,
credit cards, phone number, an address.
Your fingerprints were unrecognizable.
You, yourself, didn’t know who you were.
You gave up going home, got too deeply into drugs, and your face changed.
Your horse broke down in the middle of nowhere, east of nowhere, between nothing and
nowhere, an impassable desert, irregularly traversed by salt caravans.
You were shipped out with lucrative promises, to end up as the cheapest whore
in the smelliest backwater. All ways unlucky,
you just started walking, because really, all you were left with was your legs.
You needed fuel. You needed a cooling system. You needed hot water.
You couldn’t do without food.
Unfamiliar with local taboos, you absentmindedly knocked on the wrong gate.
You turned the wrong corner.
It was all in the timing. If you had been a few minutes too early, or too late, you might
have been back before sun down. You had a few thin blankets in your pack. You were
soaked to the skin.
The tire blew just as you crossed the most dangerous intersection in the city.
At noon, in the desert sun
you discarded all your heavy clothing.
You were handcuffed to a prisoner
You forgot your umbrella in the train station
the one your mother had given you.
The taxi driver was a rapist.
You bought one last souvenir
and missed the bus.
Andy Peyrie is an autodidact who started writing to ameliorate the boredom of some of his paying (yet nevertheless unmonitored) jobs. His piece "Recorded Music" can be found at Word Riot.