Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home. ~ Matsuo Basho.
A yellow cab’s parked at the crossing, it glows
like a bedraggled moon under the nightskin,
the real one’s greyed out by unseasonal clouds.
The flamboyant’s where it was, the mosquitos
thin, maybe because the virus has stepped in -
your perspective’s changed, maybe your thinking’s flawed.
Sometimes a different moon. And always the road
equals home. Gubi’s eight thousand km from
here, Mahooz is nearly four, about halfway
in between. The world’s as long as it’s broad
and everywhere there’s a peg, a track, a crumb.
Maybe home’s the end of a different pathway.