A poem by a topographer's wife

Who polish up their wedding gifts, and shine up pots and kettles,
And hang up drapes of gay cretonne, and chase the dust that settles.
They hope to do this always in their own artistic home,
And look with pity on their friends whose lot it is to roam.

How we whose lives have taken us to many different places,
Have met folks north, south, east, and west, and even alien faces.
We’ve lived in nipa shacks and huts, apartments and in flats,
We’ve answered ads for “lovely rooms” and found them full of rats.

We’ve taken rooms in “mansions”—that’s the landlord’s wily phrasing,
(We’ve learned from much experience to do our own appraising.)
We’ve eaten hearty dinners on a rolling ocean liner,
We’ve eaten just as hearty in Al’s Kozy Korner Diner.

We’ve camped in pleasant valleys, and we’ve scaled the mountain peaks,
And we’ve sun-tanned by the ocean, and fished in sparkling creeks.
We’ve rustled food from markets, and from a grocery shelf,
And lived on farms where food that’s fresh seemed just to grow itself,

We’ve gathered luscious fruit from trees, in Texas or Cebu,
And picnicked on a glacier when the sun shone at Taku.
In fact, what most folks think of as an elegant vacation,
Is standard stuff for map makers, in spite of transportation.

The lucky wives can go along; and for those who like to roam,
Its a challenge to see what it takes, to make a place called home.
You do not need a davenport, or whatnot—just a broom—
You can get the spirit nicely in a little furnished room.

You can learn to be a gypsy who loves to pioneer,
You do not have to settle down when mapping’s your career.
For it’s “Here, my love, and there, my love, and how soon can you pack?”
For it’s “Here, my love, and there, my love, across the world and back!”