I said I would be gone for a few minutes
thirty at the most
probably less.
Then an hour has passed
because there is no service
in this tiny metal box.
There is nothing
but the white paper
and black ink
that tells me how to make noise
that is so much more than noise.
The white and black keys
underneath my clicking fingernails
that pull me in
and I cannot leave
because this is my home
when I am six hundred miles away
and everything is too much
this is my home.