I’d thought it would be chilly, but never used
the hat and gloves. I start each trip
with the best of intentions—packing lists,
items sorted according to plans:
mornings at the museums, afternoon walks
in the piazza, evenings full of theatre
and a bit of glitter after hours.

But the return journey sports a suitcase
of sweaters smelling of wet wool
and a raincoat full of damp.
Jet lag absconds with all sensible thought,
meandering through my sleep cycle
like a pair of old socks looking for a shoe.
The Zodiac looks down on the foolishness
of schedules destroyed by weather or indigestion,
precluding the tour of the Vatican
or a stroll through Kew Gardens.

I take my aching back to the overstuffed chair,
and, squinting in the blue of the evening television,
re-imagine taxis shaped like bumblebees,
ice cream in paper cups at the intermission
of an Agatha Christie play, or Bernini’s saints
staring down on St. Peter’s Square.

God knows where I left my list.
The past has vanished. The future flops ahead
like a lop-eared rabbit galumphing through
a garden of blue carrots and lilac lettuces.
The luggage now is empty and light. It sleeps
in the basement, dwelling in possibility.