I'm walking west-bound on Fourteenth Street
to grab a late lunch at a Subway fastfood shop.
It's unseasonably cool for the middle of August.
Two panhandlers at the corner on First Avenue
are busy working the thick pedestrian traffic—
when it hits me: I'm 7,000 miles away from home,
all the way to the other side of the world.
Does it matter after thirty years? Many city places
I've also called "home": this self-declared planetary
citizen feels home anywhere his foot touches ground.
I'll wager on this one for the future: we're all
going to end up world citizens, freely crossing
boundaries; simply-"Earthniks" of the universe!
I look up, assured by the same light blue sky from
my boyhood, the same white cloud between us.
I go in for my daily veggie sandwich, no cheese.
If I keep this up I'll lose another ugly ten pounds.
Twenty off should be about right, enough to bring me
to the creation of that long-awaited world government.
It would be smart then to give up my current passport.
© Luis Cabalquinto
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