I'M A WORLD TRAVELER
I'm looking at the foreign stamp again. Forget
the post card scrawl. Another country dropped a line.
To think that Mayan pyramids cared enough to write,
the Sphinx, that crumbling lion-head, whispered
through the slot, “Come.” Montmartre knows my
street address. Hong Kong includes me in its
conversation. And there's some loch, in the chilly
highlands of Scotland, that awaits, like I'm
the second coming, the dipping of my naked toes.
With people, the whole postcard thing is so
perfunctory. But the world is genuine, buy tramadol 50mg wants me
visiting galleries, shopping at bazaars, staring up
at cathedral ceilings. Even where I am will do
anything to keep me here. It's not you and your
desperate face, your sobbed-filled “Don't go.”
It's this house. I'm here aren't I. Pass the picture window.
* John Grey is an Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock and REAL.
