Poets shouldn’t travel
they’re too particular
and apt to be peculiar.
They can’t breathe
in crowded airports
or cope with crying
babies in close quarters.

Strong perfumes make
them nauseous,
as does the smell
of hamburgers cooking
in unventilated spaces.

The jarring sound of
loud announcements
that say the same thing
again and again,
makes them psychotic
after the third time.

The suffer too badly
from the absence of fresh
the sight of a tree.
they’re upset when lunch
is late,
they tire from being
weighted down with the
materiality of luggage.
A poet is a fragile thing
of delicate sensibilites
and should stay home
where the temperature
is right,
the food is clean
and they have the space
and time to think.

Travel is not what
it’s cracked up to be,
nor adventure.
the day is challenge
the day
the tree
the bird
the song
the poem.