Eighteenth or nineteenth time, he says, but it won’t be his last.
He reeks of mobility:
well-met and acquainted
kilroyan and fleet,
invariably he’s asked, ‘Why here?’
No answer to satisfy the likes of us.
Work – Relationship – Sanctuary – Weather
What does it matter? We won’t ever move.
The mover loves his life:
he buys his tape in bulk, packs his memories swiftly
he sees time differently, passes with it
he ups or downsizes experience,
evaporates our ploddy years of
learning about this place with
his breathless insight,
Before the year’s out,
just the remnants of his silhouette,
half a rumour and
the sign by the wall: To Let.