Budapest
My pen moves along the page
like the snout of a strange animal
shaped like a human arm
and dressed in the sleeve of a loose green sweater.
I watch it sniffing the paper ceaselessly,
intent as any forager that has nothing
on its mind but the grubs and insects
that will allow it to live another day.
It wants only to be here tommorow,
dressed perhaps in the sleeve of a plaid shirt,
nosed pressed against the page,
writing a few more dutiful lines
while I gaze out the window and imagine Budapest
or some other city where I have never been.
by Billy Collins
from Sailing Alone Around the Room
Random House, 2001
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