The Shadow of Judith Chalmers Hangs Over Me
tries to tempt me out of the house,
coax me to airports,
unaware I travel exclusively by dream.
Imagine countries
where misshapen old women
offer me crystallised fruit,
show me photographs of their livestock
& this touches me. Judith
would turn in her suitcase
had her final departure risen. I’m not bothered
in my armchair on some quayside
purged of turistas,
breathing in the hot fishy air
or zipwiring over wicked rivers. Topping
the mountain without an ounce of muscle spent.
So to all explorers, jetsetters,
traffic jammers, striking baggage handlers
& Judith,
I backpack through books. Rock opera. Sightsee
on flatscreen continents
because I am a man of the wraparound globe.
Not left the house for years.
My mind so broad
I can’t get through the door.
Flight of the dragonfly 