I’m afraid of travelers.
The men and women that always have a place to be.
Passengers on planes, faces on a train, just another body
to clutter up the limited space on a city T.
Always on their tiny, fancy phones and
dressed in suits that have seen the likes
of Japan and Australia, the U.K. and
every state in America.
Still there’s not a single wrinkle to be seen.
Not one crease.
Not a sign of living out of a suitcase.
I’m afraid of the travelers.
The men and women without accents of their own
or a trace of where they’ve been, where they once lived.
So much devotion for some other place
than they were raised.
The t-shirts that say
I heart anywhere-but-the-place-i-call-home