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.