Confessions of a Compulsive Traveler

My backpack sits beside me

and an endless feeling of not belonging

seems to surround both of us.

Waiting is not an art,

Bishop would have agreed.

And we wait on,

for vacations which look so far away,

for bonuses that will enable those trips,

for bosses’ benevolence,

for good weather, soft bed, comfort food.

The gaps in-between

do not contain life on its fullest.

They are just a sort of limbo

separating you and what may come.

I observe the passers-by.

They look like they have everything covered:

A destination

and strength to get there.

...

For the Portuguese version, go to Meu Diário Lírico de Viagem