Since travel is my reason for being, and since I can no longer afford to do so, I’m forced to content myself by reliving trips I have taken in the past, and imagining where I would go if my fate were different and my choices hadn’t been so ill advised. So, without further ado, here’s a poem I have written about one of the journeys I’ve taken in my mind. Be gentle. I haven’t written a poem in decades. In fact, I’ve never felt so vulnerable about a blog entry. Maybe that’s why I’m posting it on April Fool’s Day–if the general consensus is that this poem is unbearably cheesy and horrible, I can tell everyone it was just a joke.
Traveling in my Mind
I sit upon the Spanish Steps,
as they ebb and flow,
fueled by gelato, sticky hands,
and photos we’ve already seen.
Italian heat and aching feet,
and dusty souvenirs galore.
The surface merely gently scratched.
But I wish to delve deeper still,
live secrets that no tourist knows.
Through boredom and routine
to go the paths of every man.
To have “the usual” each day,
and know the postman by first name.
Hear gossip, scandal, local myth,
and revel when their guards’ let down.
I give myself this gift of time,
for steady observation’s sake.
This tedium and ennui apace,
peel back the cloak and must expose,
a life mere tourists cannot see,
and don’t suspect or even heed.
What treasures lost!
But not to me.