Mexico City

The strange nature of what we do
To run and stay, to complain despite the alternative
To travel while seeking a true home
We are universal tourists posing as long lost locals
Our fears far too common to dislodge
our intercontinental bravado

How we travel down a winding river
Littered with money and opportunity
Reviewing the rocks that have their place
The banks that recede and close with time
Sometimes ignoring the water that carries us
To the far off sea of the unknown
Pausing to see the pain of the land locked
Knowing nothing else, offering their hands to relieve us
Of our gains

And we feel too little or too much
As our hands cast trails in the moving current
We are wet while they beg us for a drink.