For passage into a foreign country,
a sheaf of stamped documents:
does the photo match the face
pressed into the cellophane window,
does the name in the book match
the one answered to?

The pigeons in the square
squabble over crumbs in their
domestic tongue. The children
want to wade in the fountain.
The mothers and fathers say no,
no, that isn’t allowed.

Recognition is a luxury few
can truly claim— Most of us
walk around from room to room,
in circles, repeat the daily
rituals of arrival and departure
without really going anywhere.


In response to Via Negativa: Martial Artist.

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