Flips through my passport,
The ideograms of travel flit through: stamps at every port of entry/
Departure.
There is the mark of Accra, the seal of Beirut, relics
Of gods sputtering their earthly residues of approval/
Disapproval.
Creature of bureaucracy judging creature of bureaucracy,
Fully unaware that the rules that play him/
Play me.
An unquenched wanderlust reeks out to utter of the warmth
At Dar, the fear at the heart of war, the clink of glasses/
Classes.
Time’s up, the gears of tic-toc dictate I make way for
The next in line; the slouch of time is yet to come/
Undone.
Great poem and somehow a valid commentary on our contemporary existence.
Thanks Bart. The official aspect of travel throws a dark shadow on the romance of it all.
I like this image “the slouch of time”. Nice.
Thanks 🙂