Travelling

The things that I need are few and far between. I’ve got a rosary and a yarmulke, a Cat Stevens mix tape, and a book on tape called––wouldn’t you like to know? The tapes begin with an introduction about the reader of the story. He has a gravel-road voice and a handful of accents. He makes me feel like I’m there, but I’m in a car to Mexico, where I’ll probably stay a while. I’m in a car to Anchorage. I’ll probably stick around, there. I’m in a car to Dominican Republic. I’ll probably not come back. I’m in a car on East Houston Street, and I’m not even the one who’s driving. The cabbie is talking, but I’m not saying much. He asks me where I’ve been to. I turn my head and look at his reflection. Say, “You don’t want to know. I’ve been in a car from Mexico, heading for my home. I’ve been in a boat from Anchorage. I was coming back. I’ve been in a plane from the Dominican Republic. I couldn’t wait to see my bed. I’m in a taxi in the Lower East Side. If I lived here I’d already be home.”
He says, “We all live in America, in the sense we’re all alive here.”
“Wherever I go I say I’m from there, in the sense I’m probably leaving.”
“The earth is mostly water, so it looks blue from the space station.”
“There are other solid planets, but you can’t breathe on Venus.”
“Men are from Mars.”
“And girls go to college.”
“Pluto’s just a dog now.”
I’m in my house in Minnesota. I’m probably going to bed soon. I’m in my country in North America. They say it’s probably sinking. I’m on my planet part of something bigger. I’ll find out when I get there.