Tag Archives: Travel

Zero

Zero is the number

Of hours I slept

Before a 2:00 AM shuttle

To the airport today.

 

Zero is the number

Of friendly cute girls

In the security line

That I met on the way.

 

Zero is the number

Of lightning storms I missed

Flying into Houston

A half hour late

 

Zero is the number

Of minutes I had

To get from my landing

To my connecting flight’s gate.

 

Zero is the number

Of on-time flights departing

In the 40-plane lineup

That the airport had grown.

 

Zero is the number

That shows up in red

In the battery section

Of my cellular phone.

 

Zero’s the number

In military time

That my plane finally landed

At my final city.

 

Zero is the number

Out of one checked bag

That was at the airport

Waiting for me.

 

Zero is the number

Of poems technically written

By me on Tuesday

June 28.

 

Zero is the number

Of f**ks I give

That this hard-fought travel poem’s

Published 12 minutes late.

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Getting Out Of Anywhere

I’m driving down the interstate,

The freeway, highway, expressway.

I see folks who don’t want to wait,

Folks who sin, folks who pray.

I see lines of cement, concrete

Cutting green and yellow squares

Through fields of grass and corn and wheat,

Driving right through anywhere.

I pass by Costco, Sam’s Club, Joe’s,

Past rectangular white houses

Avoiding eye contact from those

Who wear jeans and shoes and blouses.

Then I take exit one-o-eight there

Past the fence the cows broke through

And I say goodbye to anywhere

And say hello again to you.

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The Guy On Your International Flight

Open, gaping maw

Swallowing my will to live.

When will you shut up?

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Canada

I had to walk ten city blocks

To find Café Joie.

That’s ten times the length in Washington

To find some plain coffee.

I paid a polite barista

With a blue, 20-loony bill.

The traffic lights are flashing green,

And I can buy a prescription pill.

I can calculate distances

By moving a decimal place,

And I can drive 100

Without being in a race.

It’s a different place than the USA.

Yes, Canada’s where I’ve been.

Now I publish this, just hoping

The “yanks” will let me come back in.

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Facebook Updates

I sat six hours in a car

To go and visit somewhere far.

It didn’t rain. It didn’t snow.

I just thought you ought to know.

  
(Not actually my dinner).

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An American Traveler

There once was a van-living hoarder

Who crossed the Canadian border.

He lost his way,

So he asked a cop “eh?”

The cop figured all was in order.
And so the directionless dude

Asked locals who were eating food.

They said “bla bla bluh.”

The van-guy asked “huh,”

And found himself viciously booed.
And so the van-guy found his way

Back to Where-He-Was-From, USA.

There’s a moral somewhere,

But you probably don’t care,

And it’s probably better that way.

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That Time When You Flew

Helicopters come and go,
Planes take off and land.
Passengers arrive who do not know
That liquids and gels are banned.

Luggage is checked, and backgrounds too.
Personal items are stowed.
Some poor guy who’s flying back
Finds out his car was towed.

Flight attendants welcome you
And give a safety spiel.
A can of juice and pretzel mix
Will be your evening meal.

Now far from home you have arrived
At where planes take off and land,
And you find the luggage that you checked
Did not arrive as planned.

You take a cab to your hotel
Where everything’s in place,
From hygiene stuff in plastic wrap
To art that’s in your face.

You stay a week and do your job
(Or relax. That’s ok too).
And then come home to talk about
That one time when you flew.

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Made in China?

I took a trip to the great wall
On my quest to see it all.
I enjoyed myself a bit more than a little.
Stupid you might call it,
But I’m afraid I left my wallet
Somewhere between the ending and the middle.

To make up for such bad luck
I had to make a buck
To get back to my home, off in Regina.
That’s how the story goes:
To solve my money woes
I was forced to be a maid in China.

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Lamps… Everywhere

I don’t need lots of money,
Fancy cars or clothes.
I’m happy as can be
Without any one of those.

Instead what my heart longs for
Through every lonely night
Is to once find a hotel room
Lit by one overhead light.

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