Poem: The Tourist

The Tourist

I saw her sitting in the Empire Square,

Head down, legs crossed,

My book in her manicured hand.

She seems infinitely mysterious

And infinitely there,

A Vermeer smile crossing her lips.

Do I approach her?

Do I say-

I am the creator of the world you are in right now

I am its God

I control the seasons, the rise and fall,

The intricate necessities of life.

Do I say-

And what are you?

Who are you these children I’ve born

To these cities I’ve built,

Are you a tourist?

A resident?

Do you love them as I love them,

Do you know what they mean,

Do you expect more from me?

I say none of these things

And watch her until she gets up and walks away,

Still smiling.

So now I just know that she’s a world

And endlessly fascinated by my work.

Author's note: I just wrote a whole bunch of poems, so prepare to be inundated with them for the next few weeks. Anyway, inspiration can come from some pretty strange places. I went on a website that randomly generated Facebook posts based on my previous posts, and some of the things it came up with were pretty poetic. The lines that inspired this poem are the last two: "So now I just know that she's a world/And endlessly fascinated by my work."