It’s not like

I want to go back

It’s just sometimes

(especially when I just woke up)

it feels like

I’ll head back tomorrow,

the day after tomorrow

or Saturday at the latest.

Pack my backs,

unpack them for security,

have a cup of stale coffee at Gatwick

change in Moscow airport

a short flight and I’m home.

About time, too.

Back home

white nights are still go,

and bookstores and bars

(to quench both my thirsts)

are open 24/7,

not like around here.

But then the day comes flooding in

you know

work chores stuff to do

same as for everyone


and the feeling’s gone before I know it.

But a thought is stuck

like an ice cube at the back of my head

slowly melting

into everything else:

don’t forget your phone, cash, passport,

don’t forget the plane ticket too

(wait, they’re all electronic these days)

don’t forget to buy

a bottle of whiskey for Dad

in the duty-free shop.

Don’t forget

where you are and where the home is.