A Confession for the Neighbors

I am mostly 
one for knots, broken strings, 
holding things I 
should’ve let off 
long ago. 

I am not a poet. 
I still get lost looking 
for home 
and don’t mind much either.

I collect wandering words
and release my own. 

I found a notebook today.
One that had surely 
been washed from its author 
many minutes ago, 
wet
from some other’s toes,
and probably, if I am completely honest,
tears too. 

I am told to find a map 
and come in from the rain 
without blue ink 
running down fingertips
but 
my feet
are tied to this spot
and maps are better
upside-down, anyways. 

I’m sure you have witnessed, 
in a downpour, birds 
that still sing and a young child 
pulled along by the wind, 
screaming into the sky.