The Rain At Home

Dusk is falling out the window:
my feet are tired,
my body aches.
I’m staring,
bleary, sighing,
slowly, sipping a beer,
welcoming the evening air,
and I am in New Orleans,
and Golden Meadow,
and Mexico City,
and Amsterdam,
and Delhi,
and Phnom Penh,
and Tokyo,
and it is raining,
and it is good to be home again.