Cheap Travel
Of course memories come
with scent of lilac
on warm afternoon air
or on fragments of “M’Lord”
sung by Piaf on an Oldies station,
time machines linking now
to the ineffable past.
But mine mostly come
from what I was reading then:
DAVID COPPERFIELD,
the brittle paperback
with failing spine glue,
chunks left behind
to lighten luggage,
his agonies and joys
and awful Uriah Heep
skulking behind the swans
of Sligo, smooth-moving on the river,
or David in love at 3 a.m.
as the pub crowd spilled out
of the bar to stagger home
through dark Dublin streets,
and we trying to sleep;
my son’s sucking infant breath
sipping at air as I lived
the world of Scott and Zelda
in TENDER IS THE NIGHT;
Pi’s huge, furry tiger
who shared passage and the spicy
scents of a 24-hour trip
riding El Conejo bus into Mexico.
My life is layered with others’
memories, nightmares and delights.
It is true … a gritty smell
may hand me Lava Soap again,
or a powdery sweet lump of pinkness
give me back Double Bubble searches
on Saturdays during World War II
when our legs were young
and our silly hopes high.
But I time travel best
with those whose words
walked with me through hell,
those who renewed my false hopes,
those who gave new eyes, new heart.
Scanning my book shelves,
I am in the waiting room at JFK,
ready to board and take off.
My Frequent Flier miles
have made this trip virtually free.