Nomadic

 

People are nomadic.

They move on,

slipping through cracks

or spinning down drains

or sometimes even

marching boldly out the door.

 

They may laugh a lot

but they’re serious, these people.

They learn early that these walls,

the roof, have nothing to do with them.

 

They reach a point where

eyes can’t sit still

in their sockets,

and heads shake in answer

to just about everything.

 

When young, they’re easy to corral

but their bodies grow,

their brains likewise

but never quite to the size

of their restlessness.

 

Look at them,

growing tattoos

from ankle to belly to back of the neck,

sons and daughters

only until their time to move on

and they cut across borders,

move into places

you didn’t even know existed.

 

Yes, eventually they’ll become

the replicas of you,

the ones you’ve always dreamed of.

But, until then,

they’ll make a point

of being everywhere and everything you’re not.

 

People are nomadic.

Until they can’t remember

ever having been so.

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.