velcro, sleep, and the lifeless rain

after several few months of waking to make campfire tea in the rain
you've earned the right to want to someday
have a house where you can color your walls.

growing up, camping meant sleeping in the stars and waking up wet.
it rained.
sometimes it meant sleeping in abandoned buildings,
sometimes in castle ruines, backwood Wanderhuts,
sometimes surrounded by german farmers' winter stacks of firewood.

I woke up in paris once to a man with a chainsaw shouting at me in french.
I slept in disney world and after the groudskeeper watched me walk away
I made my way through the fog with crackling speakers playing sting and the police.
the coloured lights were still blinking
and the empty attractions were a private Pinocchio.
The island was empty, i was alone and all my friends were turned to donkeys.
the metro ride in to the
Champs-Élysées cost the about all i had left,
and a beautiful woman in a dry stairwell met me for lunch.
I was huddled on a step and eating dry sausage on a baguette from the day before,
she was walking in, out of the rain, to find her car.
she said I'm sorry this city's so cold,
found my hand with hers,
and left a banknote in it.

one week before i left alaska i gave my
to a girl wearing flats in the rain

next time she'll at least seem a little more prepared.

I went to the library and had trouble sleeping.
maybe i learned to tie my shoes young,
but Velcro still gives me a hard time.

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