Touring Blues

Fill your minds with the deceptive grandeur
of historical places and wonders of the past
where the spirits inhabit worn cobblestones
unevenly spaced to torment tourists' feet
as they totter past countless souvenir shops
to photograph the scenery
from vantage points on high.

Coaches meditate together
like identical caterpillars side by side
or inanimate shells, empty of the passengers
who will soon climb back on board
resume their seats
before rolling, changing gears, accelerating
and devouring the bitumen.

Monotonously for some
obsessively for camera buffs
snapping landscapes, gargoyles and gables
risking decapitation
when floating beneath bridges
or rising in a bouncing cart
to record the rear end of a horse.

Indistinguishable coaches
contain clones
of interchangeable puppets
continuously force-fed facts
spruiked unrelentingly
by guides
from morning to night.

After breakfast
early
they hit the highways
as constipation, lethargy and apathy
take their toll
for those on board
at the mercy of the beast.