Why Did You Bring Me Here?

Goddamn these grey skies!
Living like a mushroom under your constant canopy.

Why did you bring me here?


I was born on a stolen island 3000 miles away.

Millions of people live there, MILLIONS.
But not me.

Rolling across the continent in my crib,
wedged between the middle seat and the front.
The scenery moving too fast for infant eyes to track.

But why did you bring me here?

Then older, running in the sun, playing on the swings in the heat.
It never snows!
Blue skies in the winter.
We drive to the beach and I play in the lagoon.
A wedge of glass slices my heel so I
spend the day sitting on the sand, bleeding,
content.

Why did you take me away?






Moving here, to the trees and the rain and the mountains.
Are we camping?
It's a forest, are you kidding?
And the hills, and the winding streets.

The rain, the mist, the rain.
The grey.


Why did you bring me here?



Is there a destiny for me here, a
prescribed sentence I'm supposed to
fulfill?
If it's all an accident why aren't I in
Idaho, or Florida?

I'll probably never know but I will keep asking:

Why did you bring me here?

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