passport

i would probably
write better poetry if
i traveled--
you told me
about the trains 
in europe-- about
the view out the window
on the ride across
the countryside of
paris 
& the calliope 
of voices
filling the car-- 
french &
italian words 
thick in the air--
i dated an italian boy
for too long but
all i know about
the language is that
the word 'zingarella' 
means some sort
of wandering girl--
barefoot & sometimes
she dances--
i'm smiling because
he called me that 
& for a wandering
girl i haven't gone
very far have i?
i don't have a passport--
i just have
my legs & an old car
that has trouble
starting in the cold--
i should make
my own passport--
take scissors
to the morning 
paper-- a collage of
headlines & the 
names from the obituaries
glued together to
make a face--
i could use my pressed
roses from prom
that still smell
like hairspray &
black high heels--
paste them along 
the borders-- 
what else then?
would a sea shell be
too much?
would it remind me
of too much
of chingoteague?
where my father
taught me how
to catch a snapping
turtle by the tail
& where we
kissed on a dock--
let our feet dangle--
oh or was that maine?
i'm still sorry 
for the lobster we
ate-- i think
of him still--red &
afraid-- water heating
around him--
let's go back to
that train in europe--
the one you told me
about-- 
i think i would
definitely 
want to be there
alone but only
so that i could 
think about him
wistfully-- 
there is a certain degree
of pleasure
that exists 
only from being
away from someone--
when i cross
the border into 
spain they will probably
scour at my 
passport-- the wilting
flowers-- the black
& white newsprint
face-- the seashells 
protruding--
they will blink
& shrug though &
let me past &
i might write a poem
later about
the ridiculous
thrill of boarders
like when we drove
down to the ocean 
& shouted
out the windows
of my mother's
blue station wagon 
at the sign that told
us we were entering
new jersey--
i promise you i
do a lot of wandering 
even when it's
too cold for bare feet--
i wish there was
a word for
the boy who likes
to wander--
sometimes when
i fall asleep
i stand up
from my body--
passport in hand
& i try to walk
to him--
street light by
street light--
all the way down
the highway
into
city-- crawl
in bed next to
him & say that
i want to 
get lost somewhere
together--
i wake up in
my body again--
barefoot-- passport
in hand--
the train is headed 
for madrid--
passing through
barcelona
but only briefly