I get good at going,
sizing up a town, a city, a village,
by the quick scan of a map,

sniffing out bargain beds, menus del dia,
playing the poor traveller
in spite of my shiny new suitcase on wheels,
my pocketful of dollars,

and leaving, leaving.
And yes, I cream off memories –
cock crow, blue light, an island in a lake,
bundles wrapped in striped cloth,
saints with real hair,
monkey call, mud,
the lidless eye of a crocodile.
But I get so good at going –

I am gone before I’m there,
have written the anticipation, have traded
the farewell. Before the goodbye
is even on your lips –

faces, doorways, streets, cathedrals,
factories, mines, your piece of sky,
I am in another country,

I am early for tomorrow. Please wake me
if I arrive.