Airborne
In Venice
glimpsing the Bridge
of Sighs
tired tourists exhale
their ennui
never knowing why.
Endgames
On the train
leaving Venice
after all that splendour
fields tilled for future crops
between towns with no stops
abandoned ruins
roofs collapsed
glassless windows
like black eyes
woodless doors smiling
toothless grins
after losing
another bar fight
no one’s fixing up
no one’s tearing down
like waiting for the phone call
on your ninety-second birthday
like no one’s texting “happy holidays”
like this
like this is what
you’ve come to.
S curves
Shapeshifting serpentine
squirming through the
Renaissance way
searching for air pockets
like those boys in the caves.
The tide’s rising
the time’s shrinking
like a swelling
of the swell
and the
not so swell.
Lit
New Year’s Eve
in Rome
everything is
all lit up
and so are we.
Even the stop sign
is drunk.
In the Ghetto
of Rome’s Jewish quarter
waiters from neighbouring restaurants
argue in several languages
over whose customers
they are near the border
between their outdoor tables.
Gestures flying
heads shaking
as oblivious tourists
peruse their menus
for luncheon options.
Doug Sylver’s writing can be found in Drifting Sands, The Sun Magazine, The New York Times and Fixator Press, among other publications. He is a recently retired public high school teacher in Seattle.
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