by Glen Martin Fitch
It's like in summer,
when your throat is dry
your lips draw tight,
your lungs refuse the air,
it's all you think about.
You dread the sky.
Your ears are singed.
Your lids can't shield the glare.
Just so
when traveling in a foreign land
you find yourself
seem stupid, lost, alone,
because to eat or shop
or understand directions
all you do is shrug and groan.
Oppressive, daunting, endless,
feeling trapped within
an age-old nightmare circumstance,
to cope seems futile,
let alone adapt.
But, oh that moment when,
by gust or glance,
in curse or whisper,
whether slurred or sung
that soothing breeze!
You hear your native tongue.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011