Spare

The tides I put away, packed tight and wrapped in plastic are now coming back out. Out again  with the boxes and bags  and I sit at their bottom again, tossed to and fro like nothing changes.

Now I live in the spare room of my life, only half unpacked, waiting ever for the next move. Possessions stacked up against the walls like sandbags but they stink of brine and I have to resist draping sheets over them to keep the dust of me out.