Nobody else besides you
seems to know—the real value
of vacation isn't memories,
souvenirs, or entertainment;
it's the momentary compression
of the whole agonizing world—
all the purposelessness
and politics, the goal-
seeking and codependency,
all the cold- and hot-
running lust, hunger, dread,
and work/life stress—
into the neat strip of wood
and concrete they
succinctly refer to as
Main Street around here.
And boy, oh boy, wouldn't you
like to shake
hands with this mayor?
For a few soothing days' worth
of saunters, it's: never mind
the bullocks and the dregs;
never mind the low back pain,
memory loss, and constipation.
Instead of detailing these
internal feelings, you'll catalog
the scenery; and in lieu of periodically
ducking conversation,
you'll duck a little quicker
into corner wine and cheese shops;
and instead of a bad loan, a
long grudge, a struggling marriage;
you'll take some coconut fudge, please,
hold the string of a glossy red
kite in the park, or heck—
maybe simply dose off for a minute
in a warm canvas chair near the pier,
secure in the knowledge
that if it all has to end, at least it'll
all end right there.
