Poem

I love the wayfarer summer house.
The way the clay roof tiles click
in the rain is really something.
Now the rain slaps
the windshield of the cab.
Why can't we all be the person
who goes to the airport
without nostalgia gnawing at us?
Simplicity is about movement.
We taste the lipsticks
in the duty free shop.
None have a unified glow,
but this one does.
The clerk carries a taster set.
He carries a yellow stick of it
in his lab coat. "Taste it," he says,
"It's not so bad."
Again, I have to ask:
Why can't I become a personage
on an airship without
thinking about it?
There's a new aspirin, he tells me,
and it has transcontinental strength.