River watchers, rice farmers, soft-skinned fishermen

they met us on the porches, smiles and hands and hugs

they tied their good wishes to our wrists with strings,

loved with their eyes.  baffled, we understood.

children ran, wide eyed and terrified

"be good or white people will eat you."

so they fled, and laughter spread

the village spilling over languages

known and unknown

the houses could not contain--

was it their curiosity or mine?

they stood right in the middle of the road
they talked and laughed and looked 

when did i go home?

i can't get anything to feel the same 

i do the next right thing, then the next right thing

on my wrist i wear dirty string

Go-getters, hard-handed blue-collars, academic types

when do we really get to go home?