It is clearly a misperception,
That I am only here and now
And nowhere else.
Parts of me are here.
Perhaps my aching knees.
Perhaps the hand that holds a grocery list,
The eyes that look up at this yellow quarter moon.
Parts of me are clearly here.
But parts are living where they were born;
Many years and many places.
I have a current passport
And all my papers
Parts of me are clearly somewhere else, sometime else.
In my English classroom during the Vietnam war;
With my short skirt and knees that do not hurt, even a little.
Part of me is still there, waiting for another visit.
Because it is, after all, a timeshare agreement.
Sitting on the hard wooden seat at my desk,
Looking at my friends and almost friends,
All of us listening to our teacher’s outraged voice
Announcing that we have invaded Cambodia.
I flash sometimes from time to place to place to time.
Destinations no less real than the kitchen where I sit,
Where I keep collecting the many times and places
Wherein I am.