Traveler Finds the Face of a Stranger

I never travel these days.
My life list of places to go
has stalled in Italy, Montreal, or Paris
and I wonder if I will ever get to China or Brazil.
Even New York seems impossible.

I am desperate for a long summer
in a small, sturdy house on the shores of any ocean
where I sweep sand from the stoop,
my bare feet constantly covered with the dust of the sea—
my face freckled with the saltiness of air meant to heal anything.

How could I have known
that the charm of the myth of you
would fade from blue sky
into a prison of endless grey days?
This rain melts away any hope
and puts me to sleep just to deliver me
from the constant tapping of guilt at my window.

On the horizon I imagine a break in the clouds
above the churning waves of this shame.
I escape into the arms of painted skin
and eyes flecked with fire and gold.
Here I will take in every drop of ocean
like laughter and the thirst of sailors lost at sea.

I will travel to that island,
if only for a little while—
a tourist stumbling upon a remote
and beautiful voice up a path,
into the door of welcome
where the table cloth is red,
the forget-me-nots are fresh,
and the bed
is warm
and soft
and kind.