Terminal or The Inbetween

It makes me sick,

But it is my comfort space,

Amongst people passing through

this inbetween,

In transit to places,

With different coloured faces;

But a case like mine?

They’d never seen.


They like their boxes,

And to them I am a fool,

So they stuff me into whatever space

they would spare,

Hoping I won’t play,

And don’t overweigh,

As if my identity,

Was their burden to bear.


Sayer sang it,

And I’ve lived in seven houses,

But never once have I –

gone home.

Manchester to Midland,

I’m caught in this prism,

And as a constant foreigner,

I am forced to roam.


At the gate now,

And he asks for my papers;

I wish I could present

my inked skin,

For the little black book,

Between my fingers,

Rests a heavy lie,

And I feel like a sin.



3 thoughts on “Terminal or The Inbetween

  1. Dad says:

    Superb….Love the play on belonging & identity against the experience of a full flight, long queues, heavy baggage , space And checks..

  2. Rakhi says:

    Whether a place,
    Or a box or made up space. It’s where you’re comfortable is home…..
    Well written.

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