You collect fridge magnets
from countries you don't visit –
teaspoons, thimbles,
postcards filled
with small-talk
on the time difference –
blue biro slashes
carving out the weather.
Your ethno-tat dresser
parades puppets –
frames of the family
wearing nothing but beach-huts,
paper-weight pyramids,
a brass Eiffel tower.
You live these images
even though
we got you your own passport.
But then you can't speak French.
Can't stomach all the fuss.
And how would you climb Mt. Fuji
anyway, on your bad leg?
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