• The Problem with Travel

    by Ada Limón

    Every time I’m in an airport,
    I think I should drastically
    change my life: Kill the kid stuff,
    start to act my numbers, set fire
    to the clutter and creep below
    the radar like an escaped canine
    sneaking along the fence line.
    I’d be cable-knitted to the hilt,
    beautiful beyond buying, believe
    in the maker and fix my problems
    with prayer and property.
    Then, I think of you, home
    with the dog, the field full
    of purple pop-ups — we’re small
    and flawed, but I want to be
    who I am, going where
    I’m going, all over again.