The Walk

Bhutan pavilionI walk to the garden’s highest point.
A poor man’s daughter
feeling as rich as she’s ever been.
I can see the burnished loch
and the last few salty, sunlit miles
I travelled yesterday.


I hold up my train ticket home,
like the Chinese used to
hold up Mao’s red book.
I don’t need it. Here
feels more like home than home.
Sorry if that upsets you.

 

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