The wind rips the building, grips the stone, batters the windows with rain and in here pools of placid light lie calm on the veneer, and I sit, ear-pensive, trained on storm, my gaze straying to the purple rucksack propped against the wall, a sturdy presence, dark and male that makes me feel small, fragile, but still here, and as I stare all weight disappears and that purple object - half-full of clothes - waits, attests to the fact that on Thursday you come back.next poem