Archive
07/22/08
Two Souvenirs I enter St. Louis's Cafe Manhattan Six hours after exiting the Old Venice Pizza Co., In Oxford, Mississippi, this Tuesday.
Reading the stops on my completed itinerary, One might almost be inclined to believe That I'm a frenzied world tourist,
When, truth be honed to the reality of the moment, I'm not even a mildly intrepid explorer But a tepid sojourner,
Venturing, when I do decide to leave home, Not all that far from my known world, To revisit the few places that know me,
Locations I've stayed in, on many occasions, Way stations accommodating my requirements: Feeling I won't get lost and that I belong.
I've returned, from my three-day vacation, Relieved to be back intact, Not asking myself if I've learned anything new,
Instead satisfied to have completed my pilgrimage, Sat at the graveside of my literary mentor, Traipsed the twenty-five acres of Bailey's Woods
Adjacent to lonely Rowan Oak, Communed with William Faulkner's spirit, Which was borne from there, in July 1962,
To whatever reconciliation of his destiny The gods may have devised For the disposition of his creativity's living legacy.
Tonight, sitting at my regular booth, I inspect the two souvenirs I've brought with me: A solitary soft, yellow-green new-growth leaf,
Which I plucked from the colossal magnolia Anchoring the brick-circled garden maze Facing the celebrated author's south-looking house,
And a handful of shaggy bark strands I pulled from the trunk of one of the cedars Lining the road leading to his abode.
I run my thumb and fingers over the limp leaf, The papery stringiness of the bark, And realize these are all that remain of my visit —
Earthly connections to genius that touched me, Invested me, evanescently, With something approximating immortality.
07/22/08
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