To Our Left You’ll See


Two trips to Italy now immersed together

with a few movies and dreams.

St. Mark’s Square; a man with arms outstretched,

covered with roosting pigeons.

‘Flying rats’ was all I could think, watching him in proper distaste.

St. Peter’s Square; too concerned with the list of ‘Don’t miss!”

to take enough time to check out the uniqueness of where I stood,

Upon this rock he built his church.

That day in the papal audience, I experienced

the equivalent of a love-in and rock concert

as we awaited His Holiness. The banners waving and songs

of a dozen different countries, shouting for a blessing.

While I recall another man, cupping the chin of a fellow Venetian

for helping her elderly relative carry market items.

Long silenced cries of alarm in Pompeii

echo in the horror of the acts in the Coliseum.

Beauty in the Sistine Chapel which began with the artisans,

descendants of whom I watch blow glass in Murano

and work the seven patterns of lace in Burano.

They, the Italians, are a passionate group and proud.

Famed for their love, their art, their food,

we watch, listen, learn, but never become what they are.

We are the pretenders to their history, the groupies to their fame,