A Language of Acceptance

Mexicali disco pop plays on the stereo.
The menu is unrecognizable.
The tourists are long gone,
There is a spring in the step of the natives
as they walk their dogs and sip their cappicinos.

The silverware on the table is narrow and heavy.
The glass of water is perfectly proportioned,
art and practical genius.
Someone paid attention.

Two women walk by. Two men,
The normal here. No one pays attention,
to them or to me, I am gloriously anonymous.
Politeness abounds. The black waitress makes me smile,
reminding me of home,
a home that age has taught me never existed
except in the little bubble of my grandfather’s home.

I sit. I write. I watch people as they walk by
in this place you love, where they speak your language
in more ways than one. A language of acceptance
and ease with themselves and each other.

You are at the end of the earth, the far end
of a long peninsula. Perhaps only here
could such a place become what it is.
Certainly it is not the norm in this land of anger.
But it should be. Oh yes,
it should be.

About this poem.

I am in Provincetown, Mass. There is a culture of acceptance here I see no where else in the world. It is refreshing, particularly in the times we live in, so full of judgement and anger. If I could choose a place to live in the United States, it would be here. I might not fit in, but it would not matter.

And how cool is that?

Tom