Foreign Language Poem by Michael Philips

I have this interpreter
grafted to my body,
He is inebriated and
conveys not me but a goon,
using all the wrong words,
facial expressions,
body movements
like a marionette.

I want you to know I am more
dimensional than that alien absurdity
that just came out of my mouth.
I want to woo you with graceful words
about the bittersweet essence of the world,
with lyrical passages about simple joys,
but my language is torn from a phrasebook,
and I’m stuck with phrases like
“Excuse me, Madam. Can you tell me
the way to the train station? ”
But it’s okay, I don’t know what I
would have said anyway.