Hiroshima- Kyoto

Why do I have such a comfort zone here
Perhaps it is my alien upbringing
The years of walking around
Feeling like the planet was not my own

People staring at you as if
There was asparagus growing out of your forehead
There must be more than the vague alcoholic rash
That calms me

The angle, the curves
The order in clutter
The attention to detail that
I often find lacking in my own performance

I carry just enough words in my pouch to get what I need,
Be polite and not be too much of a nuisance
Perhaps if I knew the language it would lose the charm…

When I tinker