Abroad

	Rolling on my Palsy's dry desert wheels,
	I become wet-green, temporarily English.
	I've planned this ride with mother,
	Who's mistaken for a native in the rain.
	We're drenched in homogenous liquid and stone history.
	Burger King stands ready to serve Trafalgar's pigeons.
	Stone lions and gold unicorns also lunch with pigeons.
	For a place to shed feathery memories, they use mother.
	The birds weary of cooing their country's history,
	Wishing the past would wash away with rain.
	Meanwhile, seeds and apathy stick under my wheels,
	So wings fly for parts less English.
	We then leave for an Ibis that's English.
	Not crimson, our hotel is like off-white pigeons.
	It's dully ubiquitous, with a six channel history
	Of Brits who leave Hong Kong on Limo wheels.
	Expatriate governor's tears fall like rain,
	While I share tea with mother.

	My wheelchair doesn't move easily for mother
	Over the cobblestones of the English.
	But, I enjoy painted sunflowers and the history
	Of the Tower ravens, black onyx amid pearl gray pigeons.
	With crowds past us, the jewels are the hubs of wheels
	That turn the country toward itself during the rain.
	Next, we visit indoor wax, safe from the rain.
	We mingle with Henry and Elizabeth, who though English,
	Owe their crowns to Normans, known to history.
	The horrors and heads below sicken mother,
	Who longs to feed pizza to Picadilly pigeons,
	While I spot red double decker wheels.
	We stop over with my aunt on British Air wheels.
	She has in New York a terrier who doesn't like bath rain.
	I see Miss Saigon- star-crossed girl suffers Vietnam's history
	Meanwhile, my aunt toasts her sister- my mother.
	Next day, we bid farewell to Tribeca pigeons
	With a "Cheerio" borrowed from the English.

	Our English tour is part of our history.
	The memory of rain haunts mother and me,
	And I find pigeons' feathers stuck to my mind's wheels.