The Tourist at Home

We’re there, tourists, sampling
and then we return home
with photographs and memories.
We hold intimate wine gatherings,
haul out the photo albums,
put on the CD’s purchased
in a small shop just off the large square
with church, hotel, benches and pigeons.
We discuss fondly, while driving
to work with our car-pool, of the day,
the inevitable day, when we’ll return
to sip coffee in the quaint café
by the small fountain and lascivious statue.
Then, one morning, with fresh snow deep
across the driveway, news of occurring
crashes on the freeway, we also hear
that in our five-year old memory,
a war has begun, or there was a devastating
fire, or a hurricane destroyed the church, or
an earthquake levelled the hotel
and café. We hurry to view our photos,
to listen to the melancholy music on the CD
and we damn time for not having
the patience to wait for our return.