Lens

Andrew R. Duckworth

Branson is different now.
So is Orlando.
Gulf Shores.
San Diego.
Memphis.
They’re the same, understand,
The same as they have been.
My eyes see them differently,
From this shell
Of what I once was.
I can travel everywhere.
It wouldn’t suffice.
No place feels like it did-
It all feels stale somehow,
Or perhaps artificial
Like I’m only half there,
Like I’m only half here-
Dragging around memory,
My feet, and expectation.