To the swimmer that when T.S. Eliot, scion
Of Boston Brahmins, raised in St. Louis, later
Styled himself a metoikos, Greek for ger,
Someone never at home really, anywhere,
He wasn’t only indulging in self pity, he was
Inventing a kind of excuse, an excuse
The swimmer knew. To abide is to tent, is to
Dwell, but if even forty years of encampment
In the same wilderness can be claimed
A mere sojourn for the unnameable ruler
Of everything, then a few decades here or
There, a change of nation states, means
Nothing, really, no responsibility. The swimmer
Surveyed the lake, glowering peacefully in
The hazy sun between summer thunderstorms,
After a good, long swim. Home is where, when
You feel like ger, you still have to take it in.
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