the other day from out of nowhere I
not only tasted but could smell
some perilous plum of Romania.
If only I could as easily make
the sidewalk flower dealer animate
and a bus belching gritty plumes
screech to a brief halt, doing its humble
part in adding to old city mayhem;
maybe seek a frail excuse to play
the game of blending in a throng,
or the verification favorite:
my homeland was never my place of birth.