Desiderata V Poem by Morgan Michaels

It is nice to cross the ocean
just we two, like clouds, half-pulled, half-pushed,
entering a different zone and time
where people murmur a tongue
(or three or four) for the most
part incomprehensible to us,
yet, more or less, consistent with their clime,
and think thoughts (immigrants welcome? !)
born of rectitude, not a scurrilous Post,
each a tessle in a sole, harmonious whole
(and not merely idealogically):
where heaven-grazing palms
slender as young men, haze an azure sky
and throw lengthy, blue shadows across the square
and the scent of oranges and cinnamon
vaguely permeates the early air.

But it's also nice to be back
here to where everything's thrice the price,
value's neatly halved,
and we are free;
to where we get so admirably little for our taxes
(policing the Middle East making it all worth while)
so that it's easy to see why we've never liked paying them;
back to where food's costly and abominable
and tomatoes taste lke paper
where murder's a daily event
and retirement, an improbable dream;
why, I, for one, was happy to see them, again,
the rats dragging their tails on the gleaming subway rail-
so sleek, so fat, so agile-
they seem to know exactly when to vanish,
much like congressmen.

After all, there is no place like home.
Say it, and tap your heels together three times.
Doubtless, you'll agree.