Eyes close, I see
a transparent globe rolling towards me -
the old measure of enticement
to pack and go. But
I have seen it all, huts, castles, people,
an aged world grown familiar -
no longer do I wish to comb the streets
in search of shrines and sacred pyres.
In how many exotic cities have I watched
And there were all the words I could not decode,
Mandarin, Russian, Arabic, Czech.
Sitting before an omelet at some restaurant,
I would tell myself stories and stare
across the room at children cooing
to a cookie, a
My nights alone, I counted stars. Now,
lulled by my radio, I listen to strands in the air,
and I move in arranged simplicity, my eyes resting
on objects I recognize -
the mirror in the carved frame,
a coral stone on the shelf, Murano flowers in a vase.
I watch the two black pigeons on my window sill,
each with a white feather straddling the back -
old friends come back to their roosting place.
They like what is familiar, and do not fly
to far away places.