In which I go Visiting

Looking for
A self-unmade man
Is both easier and harder than you'd think.

I roll up a few shirts and shorts
And a new pen
And walk out of the door, it's a July morning,

And I hitchhike to London,
(The Atlantic being the hard part)
And I make Jean give me a berth on her sofa,

She being kind, and unwise
As the wise often are
When the sun hits the concrete, and the glare spills over.

(And now for a moment
Excuse me
I wonder, could I make her laugh? She has

A wonderful laugh,
I know, though
I can't say how. But I digress.)

And that is my last stop
Because once I reach it,
The North Sea, it's only Heinrich Heine and me,

And Heinrich, you know --
I stickle for details --
Is dead. But I, for reasons that have not been explained to me,

Any more than they were explained
To nTexas,
Am alive. But still self-made. So still travelling.

After the last stop,
(See? Not so fast)
I will catch a freighter into Houston, and look for that tavern

Where all precepts evert,
And where nTexas
Will have left a clue, and I will follow it, till I'm dizzy

And stumbling backwards
Into New Mexico
I will sit down hard, and she will smile at me.

And we will just lean heads together
For an hour
And almost I will be self-unmade, but there is more,

Because, as I said
(I said this, remember)
It's harder than you'd think. So I will leave the waterfall,

And walk in Lekshe's garden,
In the cool of the day,
Hoping vainly that she will show up;

And then from there
Because (as you
Will recall, I also said), it's easier than you think,

I will wander down
To Tosi's
And have breakfast. Self-unmade, and hungry.

I will eat eggs,
And drink coffee,
And murmur the Lord's prayer. Give us this day.