Twenty five years ago tomorrow

you saw me exhaustedly trying to drain

a pint in a bar in Media, travelling

for so long, a hundred litre

rucksack deposited in a rundown,

no television motel

but with a welcome sign that eased

my weary soul.

The Greyhound ticket I had used to

navigate the state was shoved,

stuffed, without care into one

of the overflowing side pockets,

jumbled up and crumpled,

pressed between mixed tapes

of memories of home, emotional baggage

that I cradled throughout my journey,