My Trip

I am looking at a smallpox vaccination scar

In a war movie on the arm

Of a young actor. He has just swum

Across a river somewhere in Normandy

Into the waiting arms of his rejoicing comrades.

Of course, the river’s in California,

And the actor is dead now. Nevertheless,

This is the first of many hotels this trip,

And I find myself preferring wars

To smut on the networks,

Even as I find myself reading

The Pisan Cantos for the umpteenth time

Instead of the novel in my bag.

The poet helps me to the question:

Does anything remain of home at home?

Next day is no way of knowing,

And the day after is my favorite,

A small museum really perfect

And a good meal in the middle of it.

As I’m leaving,

I notice a donkey on a vase

Biting the arm of a young girl,

And outside on the steps

A silver fish head glistens beside a bottlecap.

Plenty remains.

The work of poetry is trust,

And under the aegis of trust

Nothing could be more effortless.

Hotels show movies.

Walking around even tired

I find my eyes find

Numberless good things

And my ears hear plenty of words

Offered for nothing over the traffic noise

As sharp as sparrows.

A day and a day, more rivers crossing me.

It really feels that way, I mean

I have changed places with geography,

And rivers and towns pass over me,

Showing their scars, finding their friends.

I like it best when poetry

Gleams or shows its teeth to a girl

Forever at just the right moment.

I think I could turn and live underneath the animals.

I could be a bottlecap.

Going to the airport going home,

I stop with my teacher, now my friend.

He buys me a good breakfast, berries and hotcakes.

We finish and, standing, I hear

One policeman saying to another

Over the newspaper in a yellow booth

"Do you know this word regret, Eddie?

What does it mean?"

Plenty of words over the traffic noise,

And nothing could be more effortless.

Catching a glimpse of eternity, even a poor one, says it all.

Source: Pennyweight Windows (Alice James Books, 2005)