day FOUR HUNDRED and SEVENTY FIVE

you can’t get a taco in venice

fat foreign people

stroll eating gelato at dawn

taking big licks like mischievous children

as they stop to photograph lilacs

the peeling paint off of ancient walls

and the stinking water of stagnant canals

frazzled teachers prance chattering school groups

through sun-soaked piazzas

packs of kids all dressed the same

in levis t-shirts, ripped jeans and nike shoes

who chant rap lyrics in unison like little fascists

in a malaise i call america

in the tourist bars

the tourists are drinking flavored spritz drinks

before the sun is fully in the sky

lingering over verboten alcohol and stale olives

served to them by sullen waiters

pining over women in love with their cell phones

and not the gorgeousness of the bridge of sighs

tourists, we think this is what life can be like

…at least for a little while

we know that beauty is in the eye of the beholder

but we’ve forgotten that love is blind

that stravinsky and pound are here somewhere

rotting in a lagoon cemetery

far from the gleam of murano glass

we’ve forgotten the suicide feel of a hangover at noon

because it’s been too long

or that work and death will always come back calling

much harder than they ever did before all of this

while in dark alleyways

wayward nigerian men stand next to graffiti signs

extolling libertine virtues

for the right cost

next to posters

advertising the genius of veronese and tintoretto

we’ll never bother to see

next to trouble-free people

sucking down plastic cups of white wine

ignorant of illiberal democracies everywhere

they hold out floppy hats

emblazoned with stained italian flags

and logos for the new york yankees

nigerians swatting at mosquitos

staking out a claim against starving seagulls

begging for change and bottled water

in the spring sun’s merciless heat

of a beautiful city

that’s slowly sinking into

the dark green and heavily salted sea.

                                   

--John Grochalski