So I said to myself: I’ll move to a new city,
a new country, some other place
better than this one. Sometimes I think
I can’t move for my past around here;
the ghosts file through me in every park,
every bar. It’s like the mouldy novel of my life,
and I just keep turning the dog-eared pages.

But I haven’t left - and maybe I won’t ever,
or can’t. This city’s like the smell of smoke
deep in an old jacket; disgustingly nostalgic.
You can hope for things elsewhere, but
then you can hope for a different personality.
If I’ve wasted my life here, I guess I’d waste
it anywhere. So I say to myself, anyway.