The guy at the trinket shop where I buy my George Harrison
is telling the other customer not to bother.
Just do the National Trust tour, he says.
Just go see John’s house and Paul’s house and forget the
Beside he says, the Dingle is a real shithole.
The guy shrugs, folds up his map and pushes open the door
to join the rest of the tourists in Liverpool.
This is the moment I make my decision.
When we ask about a better map,
the guy at the counter tell us there are really
good taxi tours.
You can take a tour, he says, not have to worry.
Besides, it’s too hard on your own.
I know a guy, he tells me, drives one of those cabs,
he knows more about the Beatles than anyone.
I nod, thank him for the water and leave.
We find out about a transit pass.
We mark up the only map we have.
We set out early the next morning
It’s two miles to the first home.
We tie our shoes tight.
When people look at my pictures they shrug.
It’s just a bunch of old houses.
What did you do on vacation, they ask?
They stress the word “do”
I don’t get on the tour bus.
And it’s not a vacation. It’s a trip. There’s a difference.
I want to tell them this but I don’t.
They wouldn’t understand.
When I tried to explain
that finding these people is a kinship
a thing that ties me to the past
to the art that I need.
They shrug and say, I guess, if you’re into that sort of
They don’t see the point.
They ask if I went to see any West End
If I went on the London Eye.
They want better pictures.
I hold the map. We head down Beech
Street to Wavertree Road.
He takes the pictures.
By the time we get to Arnold Grove,
where George was born it is raining.
The people that live there
don’t want us around.
We keep our distance on the narrow streets.
We need to see it. We need to know it’s real,
the way we did with the other houses,
the other graves.
We snap just one picture before turning back the way we
In the distance, is the Magical Mystery Tour Bus.
It will never fit up those narrow streets.
I wonder what the view is like from up there,
watching a city stream by,
never really seeing it. Never walking its streets
or talking to its people.
He waves to the people in the high seats as the bus passes
He tells me, we don’t get on buses.
I take out the map.
He takes another picture.
Get me to Penny Lane,
And I do.
The man on the train
with his guitar
and his soft singing
is ten times the artist
I could have hoped to have been
I woke up
but an empty bucket
for a heart
when the loudspeaker
telling us that
in the subway it is illegal
to solicit money
I push the bills into his hand
which is chapped
and cracked like a dead starfish.
I tell him thank you
because he reminded me
that the purpose
and the meaning
and the heart most of all
is a thing we carry
and if it is not in my own
then it’s good to know
someone has a goddamn
hold of it.
Ally Malinenko is the author of The Wanting Bone and How To Be An American (Six Gallery Press) as well as the novel This Is Sarah (Bookfish Books). Better Luck Next Year, a poetry collection, is forthcoming from Low Ghost Press. She tweets at @allymalinenko mostly about Doctor Who and David Bowie.
The views and opinions expressed throughout belong to the individual artists and may or may not coincide with those of the other artists (or editors) represented within the magazine. Hobo Camp Review supports a free-for-all atmosphere of artistic expression, so enjoy the poetry, fiction, opinions, and artwork within, read with an open mind, and comment wisely. Thanks for stopping by the Camp!