Poem: To Zanzibar By Motor Car

I like writing poems late at night; it is when my muse sings. But with this schedule, night is redefined and I have less and less time to put words together, like a puzzle. Most of the time, I don't like the picture that results, but I don't want to be empty-handed so I post it anyway.
-
To Zanzibar by Motor Car

This is a geography lesson.
Here is your nose.
Here is your left eye
and your right one too.
They wrinkle when you smile,
so you do not smile
lest you become an old man.
But you shall not be as old
as the Pardoner or the Miller
and certainly not as old
as the Wife of Bath.

In that last trip to Bath.
you looked into murky green
and saw your face,
traced arcs of latitude
to Zanzibar by motor car.
Why - you cry - you were never
a vain man, and now blood blisters,
spiders within the bending sickle's
compass come, and with every turn
new maps unfold, you chart territory.
This is a geography lesson:
I take my five fingers
and place them on your face
and you take your hand
to wash them off.