Jack hits the road.

Yesterday my son left home.

He forgot his comb.

Jack flew to Rome

in a tube of chrome

To drink cappuccino with foam

And grow his beard like a gnome.

Across Europe he’ll roam.

He’ll visit Place Vendome

And read the Mysterium Magnum of Jacob Boehm.

(Quite a tome.)

He’ll hike across Italian loam

To draw a thicket of ancient brome

Then pause to chant Om

on some verdant Tuscan holm.

And then he’ll return from St. Peter’s dome

to New York, cold as Nome,

and say, “Hey, Papa, Shalom!

What’s for dinner?”