Waiting Under a Streetlight

He stood waiting under a streetlight
For thirty six full hours before realizing
That he was not there by the river
In Chicago at all, but was in fact
Walking Khao San Road in Bangkok,
Looking for a place to spend the night.

Four minutes later he discovered that was
Wrong and that his feet were boarding a train
Out of Mumbai, but he couldn’t recall
Where he was headed for the longest time.
Two and a half hours of riding the rails
And he remembered that he was supposed
To be in Lagos, but that he was really stuck
In Jakarta for the rest of the week until he
Could get the plane tickets sorted out.

For the time being, he sat on a bench in
Washington Square Park, tossing crumbs
At the pigeons and dimes at the musicians,
Wondering how much it would cost to
Rent a car and visit the Sorbonne while
He was waiting to hear back from…who?

Then something truly odd happened when
He thought for a moment that he was in
Tenochtitlan, apprehensively observing the
Arrival of Cortés at the palace of Moctezuma.

But no, he was flying business class to London
From Boston, with two drinks in his bloodstream,
A pillow under his head and a blindfold over his
Weary eyes, keeping out the muted artificial light
And impeding his view of the stewardess’s very
Fine ass that would be plainly visible if he could
Just move. Why couldn’t he move? Probably it
Was because he was actually singing karaoke in
Tokyo with some call girl that Tom had ordered
For their big night out on the town before going
To Rio for the second leg of the trip where they’d
Meet up with…who was it this time they needed?

He was going home after that in any case and home
Is where the heart is, but isn’t your heart in your
Body, and so isn’t home wherever your chest is?
No, home was in Grand Rapids or Algiers, though
It was likely in Rome, or it could have been Naples.
But now Cape Town seems more familiar, certainly
A better candidate than Lille, but maybe not as sure
As Quito, or possibly Montreal, though the winters
Are out of place, so maybe it was really Riyadh?

He sighed and brought his bicycle to a halt outside
His apartment building in Shanghai and looked to
The upper floors where his temporary home nested.
How could he have forgotten that he was in Cairo?
Clearly because he was still waiting for this delivery
And the delay and anxiety was messing with his head.
The rivulets of rain spattered his shoes when he let
His eyes fall back down to the ground, and he cursed
The weather, as he only had one day in Sydney before
They headed inland to see the Himalayas or climb them?
In frustration he kicked the curb and went back to waiting
Under the streetlight, motionless on a corner in Chicago.