We are in York – old and new
city wall a thousand years older than my country
I want maps and phone-ahead beds
and Zagat ratings that say nothing condescendingly
You want ghost tours led by
fake-accent Dickens castoffs
and Yorkshire pudding with
“Real American Chili”.
You want cold stone walls weeping
the sand grit of last millennium
and bare feet in the black river
and bad photos at the medieval
we find a restless-footed college professor
and are the only ones on his walking tours
for 3 straight days.
we find an old bed where my feet hang off
and your hair catches in the brass headboard
while we pound and grunt out the Vespers
of our English nights.
We find Scotland and ourselves
while we lose each other
I never got High Tea at the brick
place on the High Street.
We get back together later.
You want rules and order and
I learned to love only wandering
the streets the way you showed me.
We get condescension and America
in the end.