After eight days
In a foreign land
One begins to believe
Every bad driver endured
On a narrow winding road
Is American

Or a midday pint is proper
Or Guinness
Would do just fine

Rain becomes fair play
And sun, dislodges from the sky
As the strangeness
Of stranger evaporates
With the forward lurching
Of time


We sleep, compressed

between skin, within

someone else’s bed

laying brains on foreign pillows

denting batting

with our hard shell heads.

Passports become artifacts

become relics, totem fetishes

of home

as we seek peak experience

to share

lifting a slim veil, understanding

what it means to be.