179/365: Tallying My Lack
I live on borrowed things and kindnesses that summer,
boiled stinging nettle in water to heal
and brown rice to feed,
sun to brown
and water to bring me back,
and I felt I had nothing.
I woman brought me fresh-baked bread,
and another showed me how to wash in the sauna,
and I crawled back into my tent at night,
tallying my lack.
I had rolled into the richness
of kind strangers being kind,
and I behaved as though
I were the only one in the room.
Damn, I was an idiot.