A Travelling Circus

Roving reporter resettled, mulling 

over the previous years, he reads

the bottom of a cup of cold coffee, 

and says: I am no communist, but a joke is 

something you share – thereby making

our marriage a joke. Of course, I know

better than to mention. A man 

needs his contradictions, his train set, 

his project to repaint the garage door

this summer, come winter, next year, 

after this or that. His respite found in

ever larger numbers: ten fish, twenty,

two hundred and a ball python, hobbies

that nail you down, San Sebastian 

held in place by paperclips, buttercups, 

African cichlids, pushpins, yellow 

skirts, by Kierkegaard, all non-events, 

all non-events and swimming to their 

death. But look at the weather. But 

consider: the standard of living, 

he reasserts and takes another sip –          

like poetry, I make nothing happen, 

while he shapes us into exiles, into

not quite what I might have wanted.

But the schooling options. By tradition, 

I lament the loss of a home we never 

had, and agree to our next resettlement.