you see the house with the winsome picket fence, the
dusky summer-glow curling round the porch
the crimson geraniums,
her blue flower-print apron.
you hear the idle whistling farmer on the
watch the winding valleys roll by
matching his history to thier curves
you see the waitress’ laughing face and her
red lipstick and her ruffled dress
and maybe the jukebox is singing
you see the whirl the lights the noise the music
the corner-cafes and galleries
you have the paragraph, you
fill in the page
“wouldn’t this be a beautiful place
to settle down?”
There’s a reason the wanderer wanders.
he is following the scent of home
In the next city.