The sherbet day

That socket – lord, I don't have to worry about adaptors any more,
but I have adapted to adapting, to those foreign, rounded fingers,
the extra stage between me and receiving light and sound. Heat.
I wear my own clothes again, and remember how loose they are
– I wish I had left them with you, and taken yours. It would prove
that I was still a person, if clothes settled, didn’t fall around me.
I read my library book and it does its job quickly: I am in London,
in a cosy tall house. It is Christmas. So strangely, deeply familiar.
It is August, and I have never lived in London. Maybe another life.
Blue is my favourite colour. But it could be green. I don’t know
if I have the innate ability to prefer. Everything is sherbetty to me.
I told you what sherbet is, here, and I think that is a happy memory:
photos of my sweet-sour blue ice-cream from the van in the park,
the tram sliding through scrappy wasteland. Sharing it all with you.