So now the rain decides to tumble down,
uncritical applause to end a day
that no one should have noticed anyway—
another hotel room, another town,
another language I will never speak.
We children of the book live by one law:
no days shall be allowed to be alike.
"Enjoy a quirky local tour by bike… "
"Explore the vibrant hawkers’ stalls before… "
I still observe, but faith is growing weak.
No guidebook recommends you turning back.
It never says on page one: "Stay in bed."
I can’t be bothered even to unpack.
This town’s too much like something that I read.