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Travel 
Travel is the saddest
pleasure in the world,
moving at whim through
places we will never
return to, faces we
will never see again,
and words we do not
understand. We travel
to say we have traveled,
and as we go we squint
one eye, close the other,
and hold between us
and the thing we have
come to see a contraption
out of Plato's cave
(complete with its flash
of fire) so that when
we return to the place
we left from and throw
on the living room wall
the shadows of where we
might have been, we say,
"Look, that's me, with
the Parthenon on my shoulders,"
and, "Look, that's me again,
holding up that leaning tower
with one hand!"
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