Rust

Standing on the porch, bear footed. It’s raining tonight. The wind is quite cold, but I probably won’t catch it. It’s more likely that the cold will catch me.
Standing on the porch, twenty five miles away from somewhere I can’t remember. Why should I, if it doesn’t remember me?
And places won’t remember me often, do you know that? It’s because my train of thought has stations everywhere, and is impossible to follow.
And porches won’t remember me, often. Why is that?
Please tell me. I’m desperate to know.