Ramblers

It's good, I think,

now and again

to toss off one's identity

and go bare.

To feel the tenderness exposed

when wandering far away

from home.

Seeing one's life

cupped in the hands

of the pilot,
the bellhop,

the taxi driver.

Relishing
vacancy,
space for absorbing

new beauty.

Tolerating that one
quivering moment
when hollow alienation
skitters in.

Tapping your shoulder,
rattling

as you press your way

through herds of bicycles 

buses

and banging doors

back,
thank God,

to that borrowed room

you'll call home for a time.

Because, hey,
we're all tourists here
on this orb
we've endearingly named Earth.

Why not admit it?

Why not feel it in our bones?

And dare to
 ramble
while we've got the chance?