you're a peon

When I was nineteen
it became clear
that I wanted to be somebody,
if only myself.
Now at thirty-two,
I remember walking
the back streets of Europe
admiring the gardens,
the shared spaces,
the clay, fitted rooves,
the yards maintained
with care and compost
the trains whizzing by
benches and trails
built of beer barrels
coopers and coops,
nearly every plot manicured.
If I am lucky in life,
the weathered patina
will rub off on my mind,
that european dream
to which I succumb.
None of my friends
appreciated this,
nor considered this
of vast import to their souls.