Travel

I am walking to a far country
with stones in both shoes.

People say I’m an emigrant or an immigrant, 
depending on where they are standing.
There are those among them who wish to know
why I don’t stop and remove the stones,
and others who don’t care if I ever do.

As everything I’ve described is imaginary
but real as well, I’m told I should turn my attention
to the answers.

The country I am leaving? What name should it be called?
The destination?  Should it be revealed at all?
The stones? Does it matter if they are large or small? 
Should I stop and take them out or learn to suffer well?

See?
The journey’s now thoroughly interrupted
with this over-fastidious attention.

If you expect every traveler
to know these things,
how will travel ever again
be worthy of our time?