Analysis of What There Is to Be Said of Home

Dizzied by the whirl of crowds
On sidewalks, seen through windows --
Reflected in mirrored, columned walls --
I drink, I eat, I mull and fret, I yearn,
Little lulled by homely music
Softly playing beneath sonorous
Strains of Spanish
(Beautiful tongue, not yet quite my own,
But now not strange to me --
Not wholly foreign.)
I sneak sidelong glances, I peek, I stare.
And I almost always feign indifference:
A pseudo-cosmopolitan air.
I am quiet and excessively polite,
Not yet knowing how to be rude
In this still stiff idiom.
And, I am ever intensely lonely --
Hungry for a caressing, offhand phrase,
Or only a stray familiar word, hardly heard,
Whispering all there is to say of home.