Crystal cracked blue eyes goggle
At how mine can be so black,
Cobblestones lead my spit-shined boots for the first time,
Alone through hulking medieval clock-towers and
Garish modern street fashion.
Only when four thousand miles away from home
Can I see my true reflection in Euro-shop window glass.
A plump grandmother with sugar ‘n’ cream cheeks
Pops out with a “Guete Tag!” from the antique store.
I explain that I don’t speak German - wait for puzzled look -
But she smiles, presses fifteen Swiss francs into my palm,
And says in American English, “You have come so far
to be wandering these Lucerne streets alone.”
She shows me tea stained tatted lace,
The fissured porcelain of old Kestner dollfaces,
And, of course, the decay of green Swiss army canvas.
She sells the old heritage remnants of a foreign city.
We connect not through our ties of cultural blood,
But with our hot insistence to feel at home;
To feel tenacious and capable, anywhere we find ourselves.
The delight is felt despite our awareness
that if ever we lost our way in these indifferent streets,
Only ghosts would know.
I continue my expedition alone, but sure.
Deliciously deserted-
No phone, map, or language to protect me
From the strange streets that fuse extrinsic history with Now.
