I met a lonely traveler,
or so the poem went.
He came up from an antique land
just as the poem began.
But I’ve never seen a man of dust
whose beard could grow a tree
I’ve never asked him where he’s been
or what statues he has seen.
I have not seen the pyramids
or realms of flowing gold.
I have not swam the Hellespont
or walked the streets of Rome.
What I have are pines and grass
and mountains carved in my brain,
dragonflies and apple pie
and cats and squirrels and rain,
Streets of asphalt in desert lines
that define all that is straight,
simple rhymes and story time
and democratic states.
Thank God for that my place is mine
Its song is raw and fresh
This pot is full with brimming ink,
Its Hellespont is fresh.