Airbnb

Airbnb

This evening I am walking home alone.
And wondering if I'm looking out of place.
My briefcase holds my wallet and my phone,
A laptop and an old sunglasses case,
A jangling bunch of unfamiliar keys
A moleskine notebook and a crumpled tissue.

I walk in the cooling shade of friendly trees
And nod to the woman selling the Big Issue.
The lock is stiff. Eventually I pass
into the flat, close and bolt the door,
kick off my shoes, and pour myself a glass
of tap-water. My feet are hot and sore.

The bed sheets are a curious shade of pink
I'd never choose. The fridge looks very new,
the worktop wiped, and in the kitchen sink.
A piece of lettuce leaf, the only clue
that someone else has recently been here,
and eaten salad, made a pot of tea.
The owner or a guest I've no idea.

I speculate on what she'd think of me,
browsing the shelves for books I haven't read,
using her towels and her ancient loo,
plumping up the pillows on her bed.
Tomorrow I will have to buy shampoo.

It's quiet in the house. No voices call
To ask me what's for dinner, where's my keys?
I am in limbo, wandering down the hall.
Tonight I can do anything I please.