I am a stranger in this place,
laid out in a perfect
grid like a thousand midwestern acres
or a New England town,
solid and square, boundary lines
unmoveable. If I could
just jump the fence,
scale the stone wall,
skate in circles around your careful
map. Figure eights.
I don't know the rules; my blades
have rusted with time and neglect.
I mix my metaphors yet again—
my tongue is twisted and inept.
I long for paper and pen,
the cool comfort of written wordplay.
(To see more takes on the prompt "Stranger," visit Sunday Scribblings.)