Nobody in a Foreign Land
Nobody finds himself in a new country
and wonders if here he is somebody.
People stare, some directly, some
covertly, as he walks down the Cypress-
lined streets dotted with mortar holes.
He hears the whispers:
“Who’s that?” “Nobody I know.”
All the somebodies sipping coffee
in their steel-trellis chairs. Nobody
takes a seat and tries to order his own
coffee. But there’s something about
the way he orders, something about
the way his language dials in—
Zero. Zero. Zero. Goes
through his head like a mantra,
as if his very heartbeat is voicing
why his coffee never comes.