Ephemeral Tourist Poem by Jean Renwick

There is so much going on yet there is nothing we own.
All that we create will endure beyond us –
The practical tools of everyday living,
Our environmental faux pas.
Memories, once shared, assume permanence outside of us.
We pass through it all, as tourists
Vaguely clutching each thing as it approaches

So as not to drift too far away,
So as to make our mark.

As if it mattered.

One moment of distraction and away it goes;
Something else appears to take its place.
Focus is possible only in bursts –
The grasp for the particular; subjection to the whole.
Nothing is truly ours.
For in the end even the soul leaves the body,
Since the body cannot sustain the soul.