In Venice

I will tell them you stink

That you're rude

Crowded

Unfriendly

 

A certain breed of American likes to hear such things

It allows them to return home

Unscathed and unlearned

By the wonders of the world

 

To make an impression on their passport-less friends

The fearful ones who will never leave U.S. soil:

 

"Yes, it's smelly

And so expensive

The people are very rude

(You can tell they hate us)

I wasn't even able to use my hairdryer."

 

In besmirching your name

I hope to protect you, in my own small way

Deflecting perhaps at least one

T-shirt wearing, flip-flopped, acrylic nailed

Cruise ship voyager

 

Who would not stand

In awe of your obsolete yet still potent grandeur

The most opulent, antique, cobwebbed courtesan of all

Who can still tickle fancies

Of those who know where to look

 

Through haunted arabesques and

Spice filled streets

Listening to water, water everywhere

Constantly slap the edges

Of the remaining slips of earth I stand upon

 

You effortlessly fill a field of vision

With endless rooflines delineated in clay tile

As church bells ring out with regular precision

And pigeons scatter in torrents of dusty underfeathers

 

To stand in the Doge's Room of Earthly Delights

Bosch's phantasms of the world interpreted

As the rains fill your passageways and

People must traverse the sidewalks

On boards, as the cafe waiters bring their tables inside from the piazza

 

I will tell them not to come, my love

 

 

 

 

 

Done