A POEM - THOSE STRANGE TIMES

THOSE STRANGE TIMES
They were strange times and I was a strange person.
I was a stranger even to myself.
Mixed up with so many cultures,
So many people and so many different beds slept in.
I felt I left a part of me in each one.
A finger here, an elbow there,
And now I was just this phantom,
Wandering around the world,
Invisible, morbid and unfulfilled,
But still having to pick up the pack each morning,
Hoist it up onto my shoulders and hit the road,
Always waking up and hitting the road.
“fuck it,” I’d say, checking to make sure
I hadn’t left anything behind. “I’m outta here.”