Tribe
A poem.
Where are you from?
The question all ask;
searching for a hint about my home.
My tribe.
Hoping the sound of my voice
will give it away.
The attire does not.
Nor the mannerisms.
Camouflaged from decades
of travelling and constant movement.
Or perhaps an amalgam of
all those places that have been.
I am the sum of these parts.
The best and the worst
of spaces far and wide.
Not east, darling.
No caked-on makeup
nor first name terms or exes
with surgeons cosmetic.
Never pandering
to excessive vanity.
Not west, bro.
Too much sepia tones
not enough peacock
in threads, in hair.
Interpersonal space matters
and not a cousin on the same continent.
Not south, gorgeous.
Too young at heart
to join the blue rinse set.
The aroma of ageing fingers
holding handheld dumbbells
retirement village strolling.
Not north, they or them.
Eccentric queer dancing free
gothic black shuffling on sticky club floors.
Lilac spikes and steel hard hair gel.
Owl tattoos in a sea of inked skin.
Contradictory remote yet aching connection.
Opinions — up, down, left, right, centre.
Music — punk, metal, low-fi, classical, indie.
None of these things.
All these things.
Time of the day or of the night.
Time alone or together.
Belonging to no tribe.
Chameleon extraordinaire.
Searching for a mood.
Distant by choice.
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