Otherwhere

Will I know when I get there?
It could be a thousand miles from here,
or I may get there in a blink, and back again.
It’s a warm, small, dimly lit place, safe,
a place I think I like to be, or perhaps can’t help being.
I may go whilst on a train, or reading a book, in a queue, walking,
to simply become a chameleon, after all
why be one’s self?
Of course there’s no standing room,
beds are compulsory there,
I can muse with Socrates,
writhe with Juliet,
fight with heroes,
converse with ghosts,
when I’m otherwhere.

© Graham Sherwood 2009