—The Legend of the Baal-Shem,
Martin Buber
So why do we want to go
if this travel is
so without profit
if not even a souvenir pebble
lodges in a boot waffle
or a half ticket sticks
in the corner of a pocket
if it is so perfect
that it takes every tick
of its private clock back
patting us down at the exit
like a bank dick
pushing us back into traffic?