The stubs from the boarding passes
mark half-read books
and litter the pockets
of my pants,
the ones stained with mud
from the floor of that shack
where the baby cried
and the bananas
sizzled over the fire.
I wore those pants,
sitting in the chair
some other traveler sat in
before and after me,
waiting to hear
my boarding announced,
but I don't wear them out any more.
The mud reminds me they
belong at home.
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