The Book Life

Traveling Friends | April 4, 2011

I took pictures of their feet
because I knew in the end
that their faces wouldn’t matter.
More that they wore skirts,
rolled up their jeans,
carried their sandals;
mostly that took me to the beach.
I understood their impermanence from the start.
Don’t misunderstand, this isn’t mean,
just true. We probably all knew.
And maybe it was me who impermanent,
perhaps they’re all still best of friends.
After all, I was the American transplant,
the temporary visa to prove it.
I’m not sure any of us cared, that day, about impermanence,
and perhaps that’s what counts.
The social relegated to scenery.
It was the beach and cool sand
and the weather just nothing but British. Not even warm.
And the boys and surfboards, of course.

They never treated me like I belonged, not really.
And only five years later,
I’m clearly okay with having only pictures of their feet.
It’s nice scenery, and I don’t think I was there to make friends.

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