Travel Poem by Jean Bernard Parr
Travel
what men do is
worry their time zones
as the spider weaves its web
because it must
the cat leaves a paw print
on a roman tile and flexes
her sylvestrian stealth
over the weightless sparrow
and one day we saw
a footprint on the moon
etched in disturbed grey dust
what will they make of us
that came before, or of
that armooured boot
and did we really get further
than our own front door?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/7/2024 8:50:20 PM # 1.0.0.1119
