Summer 2006

 

 

 


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day in venice
Kristin Johnson

In breakfast bars at 8am, laughing locals
with knee-high rubber boots drink beer.
We order coffee but they shrug
throw up their hands.

For fifty dollars U.S., a gondolier rows us
forty-five minutes in his shiny, lopsided canoe.
After, we wobble out, wander cobblestone,
aimless, except to discuss what to eat next.

Outside a trattoria, pigeons pilfer under tables
where tourists taste tiramisu.
Inside, we learn wine is cheaper than water
and drink vino with our bowls of tiny square ravioli.

Later, we are lost in the water-logged city.
A pony-tailed man helps
walks us two blocks out of his way.

We rest on steep steps by the Grand Canal.
A darkening sky hangs low, waiting
to smother us with overstuffed indigo pillows.

A water taxi passes.
A nearby couple clasp hands.
I lean back, folding mine
place an absent elbow on the concrete
and glance at you seated a few steps away.

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