poem of the day 06.26.12

idiots abroad

christ

you hear that accent behind you

and it reduces you to nothing

sitting in a small café

trying to shove down lunch

with all of that vatican wealth

gleaming gold in the distance

you hear that accent

dull and american

slow and purposeful

like john wayne hungry

for a ham and cheese sandwich

and it just lowers you into the dirt

in fact, none of them are even trying

to speak the language

or even read what’s on the menu

they just demand and demand again

talking louder as if it will make a difference

in the translation

but this has been par for the course

idiots abroad in the eternal city

wearing their baseball hats

and football team t-shirts

taking the piss out of the italians

with their boorishness

photographing everything in sight

but taking in nothing

chanting usa! usa! when the mood hits them

packs of these well-heeled yanks

roaming around with that clueless american gaze

their ignorance buffered by

single file tour groups at the pantheon

and a sense of global entitlement

pulling along their angry kids

the trust fund daughters on high school vacation

complaining about not being at the mall

their young asses getting fat on gelato

the thick-necked sons laughing

at the penises on priceless sculptures

trying to pick up italian girls

with nothing but that foolish and taxing

american swagger

jerking each other off in hot hotel rooms

with not enough air conditioning

you hear that bland, self-righteous accent behind you

and it reduces you to rubble

takes you out piece by piece

because you are a part of it too

this red white and blue abomination

although you try to hide your shame beneath

the veneer of thoughtfulness and quiet

of polite discussion

and a bit of banter over the house wine

you are an idiot just as well

through no fault of your own

and that waiter smiling nervously at you

as he cautiously pours out the red

into two crystal glasses

chalices that catch the last orange glow of the sun

well, he was just dressed down by a tableful

of your countrymen

dressed in bright old navy t-shirts

and grand canyon hats

for the cardinal sin

of not having decaf coffee on the menu

and now he’s just waiting on you

for whatever it is that’ll make you strike.