From my room I retrace the intricate lace of maps,
 
trails of saffron and blue. I begin my story
anywhere, pull a thread of burnt sienna

to the Elephant and Castle, 
or travel a Circle to the Barbican.

The world submerged makes sense to me —
the scent of a man’s Cadbury, the sound

of a voice asking please do not leave…
I savor the place names of stations I have dreamed.

It’s what isn’t here that interests me. 
How this trinket tray adores deception —

provides a legend to the Angel,
a lover for the Piccadilly train.

How this late 20th century souvenir
keeper of beach glass, tea bag, one tiny bell

creates more than any cartographer would tell. 
I lean toward a stranger, grey eyes reading

mine before the doors next open, slightly
close, before we rise and go —

past a young girl offering Puccini
by the escalator’s puddled edge —

past travelers, erotic and unknown. 
How we must forgive a map its half-truths,

its absent streaks of grief,
and arrive in a back-lit glance

to where time for one moment rinses clean.

    Susan Rich is our poet in residence for May. 


    Previously: Present Tense: Seattle, Profiled, and The Scare Crow.