How nice it sounds to finally put down root,
To tend a garden, reap its long-awaited. . .
But just a second, hold that thought;
I’ve got to catch this flight I bought.
The call of hearth and home does beckon,
But so does that of airport check-in.
Adventure waits, with unknown thrills in store
It’s a dangerous business, going out your front door!
Of heroes wandering — homesick roamers,
I’m more akin to Tennyson’s than to Homer’s
The open seas themselves the constant Siren’s call —
The destinations blinking on the wall.
Another girl awaits with one more swipe;
Another “nothing wrong, just not my type.”
Another job, another test to pass;
Another field with ever-greener grass.
In all this lies much cognitive dissonance,
For I know that doors exist to open on inns;
I know all roads are meant to lead to Rome;
The point of all the flights the “welcome home.”
So when, oh when, at last to rest in my abode?
Yes, adventure waits upon the road,
Horizons beckon, the green light calls;
But unless he stumbles, unless he falls,
. . . A traveler will never bear much fruit.