Friday Poems

9.9.93

I've never been to Paris,
I was born in New York City
But now San Francisco is my home.
I've never been to your house
And you've never been to mine.
I want to go where I've never been
Soon, before I run out of time.
I look through the Sunday paper,
Particularly the travel section.
I see the places I want to visit,
If I could only find you among
the women of the city, and somehow
get a chance to connect with my selection.
But the days turn by like carousels
As I wait for something to happen.
And round and round my illusion grows
While my life stands put, with my fingers tappin'.
I want to do the things I've never done,
And step toward the places I haven't been.
Yet I work to the rising and setting sun,
year after year in the same routine.
I guess I could learn to save a buck or two,
ad book a destination on a plane.
Bound of course for Paris or Rome or
Possibly the South of Spain.
But what would I do with myself
without you, in a place that I've never been?
It'd just be the same, illusory game
my existence has always seen.
Day after day, my life in its old routine.
But how different and new it would
be with you, and I don't even know your name.