Poem written in Wellington-Waterloo-Christchurch

Life, sometimes, feels so weird --

at a hostel in Wellington it is
nearly midnight, after a long day
spent with Victoria and Callum, one where I
spent more than I'd intended -
but no matter;
I'm happy here, I think,
despite sickness and too many plane rides.

We ran through the museum,
too fast for my tastes,
and spent a long time sitting,
watching boys leap into the canal
under gray skies of early summer.

With Lydia we had milkshakes;
alone, we had dinner --
and the day was shot through
with laughter.

The feel of Victoria's solidity
thumping into me as I stepped
off the plane was the best
welcome I've ever had.

And after that the ride, crammed
in the back of a small car
(the one with a Ukrainian
tied up in the boot),
hands touching, arms linking,
achingly casual, as if if were
days, not weeks,
since we were last together.

The museum, a garden, long walks --

She is so happy here,
and I am both happy for her
and aching to reach out

and touch my own love.

We talk dreams (Jesus, can you tell
I have some lasting anxieties
about my family and this gay thing?)
and fears

and love when the boy leaves the room.

I am sleeping with strangers tonight
but my heart is with friends -
halfway to nomadic,
not lonely, merely alone.

--

Next day, slept late, showered -
(museum at 11 or so?)
explored the rest, Maori
history and immigration -
could I live here?
This place has such beauty.

Lunch at Maccas - oh, how American,
but oh, how cheap!

Just past two, caught the train,
headed out to Waterloo,
which is near Wainuiomata,
Callum's unpronounceable town.

If Sarah were here,
I could stay forever.

On the train
the conductor punches
your small bright ticket,
elderly and friendly, a relic,
the whole thing feeling
strange and long ago --

the past is another country.

--

Looking at them
lifts my heart and twists it -
in her I see me,
newly fallen for my girl,
in love and helpless with it -
and I understand suddenly
how Emma feels, third-wheeled
and edgy, or wistful, maybe.

But I am not Emma;
their joy in each other
is not something I can begrudge.
After all I have had Victoria
to myself a long time
and will have her longer -
our homes and schools
are hours away, not oceans.

But all the same,
when I stay for dinner,
I feel awkward.

Yet the two of them surprise me,
do their best to include me -
and Victoria sees, at least,
the lonely look in my eyes.

I have been a long time loving from afar.

Cal's father makes me laugh;
Noel too, with his stories and politics,
This country has been
so good to me, so easy.

After dinner we hitch a ride,
cresting hills with Ralph and Harry,
driving far too fast and laughing,
then leaving me to wait a train and write.

I am on public transport a sort of jinx;
with me in runs perennially late.

--

The next day then
I am left to finish
Te Papa and my shopping.
I am not lonely here,
not yet.

In the afternoon I watch
a street performer juggle;
in the evening I eat fish&chips,
watch TV and read, and sleep.

The next morning I wake too early,
catch a bus to a ferry,
pas the trip watching
my fellow travelers.

It was from Picton a long drive home,
and the weather turned cold.

In Woodend I could see my breath.