This Time in Kathmandu

so here i am
living still another chapter
in my own history of the world
this time in kathmandu
where i sit on the floor
of a cold and maybe unheatable
my afghan traveling bag
hanging above my head
a silent but sturdy reminder
that at any moment
i can again take flight
into the white
of the open road

we scribblers
we are always doing this
are we not?
trying with a poetic turn
of phrase
to shake down reality
into a metaphor of words

sometimes it actually works
if only at intervals
that must later be forgotten
if indeed
we are to pass beyond them

trouble is
even when i’m successful
i don’t know it
or could it be
there are other reasons
why i come back to the same game
so often?