There’s no plum tree on Plumptre Street,
just as there’s no lace in Lace Market.
One day I lock myself out of my rented
flat, the whole building in fact, the red-
brick architecture converted from a Victorian
warehouse. Its big windows, arched and single-
glazed, a tourist attraction in the daytime,
a shudder to think about at night, like tonight.
I pace along the empty street. Orange
streetlights flood my body, its shadow
my only company. A car drives past, red
taillights flicker like inquisitive eyes.
Silence resumes. Illuminated windows
high above, here and there, though no one
that I know, no window will open for me.
It’s the first winter since my arrival in the city.
It’s the first time I miss my hometown.