This creaky bistro chair make my heart beat just a bit
slower as the days travelog quietly scrolls by up on
the wall. Ivory-ed linen courtesies are exchanged
one hand to another with a softness hard to find.
It seems to be evening now in Prague and
almost noon at Machu Picchu. Later Big Ben's face
peeks through the morning fog over the Thames,
over-coated pedestrians pass perfectly on cue.
All seems so right with this captured world.
There are no understudies nor enmity among the movies
cast, over who got top billing or the role of a life time,
or who was caught from their worst angle. It is all
silent for them, no lines to rehearse.They just walk by
on their way to forever.
No slap of the clapperboards and the gaffer was not hired,
the cameraman was not fussy, the shadows and lights au nature,
but oh, the craft service menu is so good on this side
of the screen, hand made just for me.
The gentle mist of companionship sifts down over all of us
with our pastry scented accents, smiles of cappuccino and scones
a flat-capped barista whispers welcome back home to me with but a nod
every time I lift the brass latch. The old road home again please.
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