No room on this gondola
they told me
in my dream of Venice
last night
when I was sweating
and striving
to see your exclusive
city, from my redundant life
of tedious happenings
and responsibility.
Crowds with nicer
suitcases, women with
beautiful beige clothes
and effortless
beauty are whisked
aboard without a blink
of hesitation.
The river welcomed them
and flowed back
from me.
My bags were heavy,
awkward to carry
and torn from uncompleted
travels.
I wanted to see more
than the limits
of accessibility.
I remember scuba diving
in the Dominican Republic.
The fish still swim for me
in my imagination,
quietly and vividly.
I thought that if I smiled,
the gondolier would consider
not poverty, but my modest
and honest acknowledgement,
and there would be room
for one more little lady.
He might wave away the payment
for charity,
and hold out a hand
to steady my boarding.
There are many
quiet, good women
in your loud and rushing world.
I was merely hungry
for Italian food
in a bloated sphere
of burgeoning vanity.
I just want to see
what makes your city
extraordinarily rich
in history and exclusive love.
Some heavens
are inaccessible
to people like me
and the last boat left
ten minutes before
my rushing arrival
to the next gondolier. .
Save a scoop
of melting gelato for me
to taste in better dreams
tomorrow.
I was always
"a mental traveler."
At least my distant relative
once said so, and I admire
her travels.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
