<small>Stop and write about “I’m not from anywhere” if you wish. Or you could [[a mind to meander|go back to where the river begins]].</small> ---- I’m not from anywhere,  I sometimes tell them when I’m asked. Or a conjured-up answer, that if I reflect on, shouldn’t have been able to come out of my mouth.  A town I barely recognise, a city I’ve never been.  The hills remain consistent, and the water; and sometimes I’m deprived of both. I sit on the curbside of a street covered in unfollowable markings That kind of look like rain, And spit out a line I won’t remember, but am sick of To whatever figure is standing above me. I answer the phone call from my mother In a language she can hardly use, And to my delight, my friend smiles at me. It downpours as I seek shelter in that heavy jacket The first of my Godfathers gave me, Watching the other people beneath the bus stop board and leave. I walk past my neighbour And wonder if she’s ever met me.