Travel Films

Laughter slips under the door
Coaxing me from my covers.
I slink from my bed
And creep to the edge of the dark hallway,
To press my cheek against the wall
Behind the bold line
Of spilled light.

I hear the tick, tick of the 16 millimeter film,
Looping through the projector,
The raucous polka music from the record that
My father had swaddled in his carry-on
And the soft, murmuring narration
As his voice lilts with remembered excitement.

I am a narrow adventurer.
My whole world lay just beyond that line of light
In the peaks and valleys of his voice.