Expat

A gust of wind and I am wholly drenched,
umbrella is as useful as a fiddle,
as if the earth, demanding to be quenched,
had struck the skies, with me caught in the middle,
and opened up the floodgates, broke their locks,
to soak the world with all of their frustrations.

I struggle up the street, wet to my socks,
replaying the abandoned conversations
that carried me, like flotsam, to these shores,
deposited, and left to my devices,
away from festered and unsettled scores,
to wallow in obscene, unpunished vices,
and slowly sink beneath the seaborne foam.
So lonely, and so far away from home.