William Meinert

The smaller questions: the what’s-ups

and the how’s-it-goings of the day:

these, I believe, are best answered

precisely. So when you asked me

 

do you like it here? — I had no reply.

I searched for answers: “It’s clean,”

I said. “It’s pretty. The buses

always run on time.” But that

was not right to say,

                                 not precise.

Here, you surmise—trust—that

I might seem unnatural

                                      —that

as I adjust to your vernacular,

I hold my tongue to hide its blunders

                                                           —that

since my homeland is overseas—that—that

is why I look away and shift

                                             in my seat. But,

            you don’t know

I never spoke, where I come from—

            you don’t know

I never felt any feeling of home.

 

Where I come from, they found me to be

alien: unrobed and sick.

                                       The odor

of my sequestration

                                was foul.

                                               Do I

like it here? I answer, now,

precisely:

                it is preferable. This, I prefer:

 

to be an outsider

in another country, than

an interloper

                      in the land

of my birth.

 

About the Author

William Meinert is an American poet currently living and working in Geneva, Switzerland. As a professional operatic bass, he has spent far more time, up to this point, singing poetry than writing it, but now intends to balance the scales.