The Expatriate

by Frank Thomas Smith

The problem with most foreign lands
is that they're very far away,
like the bleachers used to be
before the debacle of technology.
Also, either they're terribly bland,
foggy, windy and damp, or,
if southerly, downright dangerous,
where bullets fly and sunscreen 21
can't ward off the assassin sun.

Why, then, does he dwell,
saying he feels, well, just swell,
ducking and frying, far from the patria
he tearfully invokes over juice of the grape
at a sidewalk table of the corner taberna?
Call it if you will, smugly, "escape".
He'll smile and wave away a bug
or give his drooping mustache a tug,
frown his glabrous suntanned brow.
"Could be," he quotes, "but who cares how?"

Sandal-clad as once Ulysses,
he'll bid g'day with hugs and kisses.
His uncashed lightweight pension check
pressed against his bony chest,
he walks along the winding lane,
not modest nor excessive vain,
home to his darkly tresséd mistress
who waits with smiles and wanton caresses.