Foreign Food

A battered suitcase.
Maybe a map.
A destination, temporary enough
that once it becomes too familiar,
you shake the dust from your feet,
and move again. Nothing permanent
save your God and the woman you love,
and one more horizon
filled with strange languages
and foreign food to feed your soul.

About this poem

I live in a state of constant wanderlust. Quiet, but always there.

The photograph is not one of mine. It’s legal stock photography.

Tom