You prefer the quiet spaces,
miles away from the tourists.
There is always something to see,
perhaps less refined, more raw,
but then perhaps, it is the rawness you seek,
You have lived a false perfection
and it is unsustainable, untrue and fodder only
for poets and mad preachers high in their golden pulpits.
No, give me the streets far from San Marco,
bricks falling from walls,
The boats more colorful, less black and white,
and the bridges with their chipped marble stairs
It is the empty places the soul of the city lives,
and where your soul peers out, finally finding
You are damaged goods.
This is the truth.
Not without value,
but lacking in drama or any hint of perfection,
never a stop for tourists,
Content to be enough for the one or two who came
About this poem
The picture was taken in Venice, Italy. Not far away is the famous San Marco plaza with its palace and cathedral. A mob scene. Worth seeing, but a mob scene. Give me places like this, little gems rarely traveled by tourists, every day.
People are like that too. Some people are tourist-worthy, projecting their perfection. Others are more raw, less tourist trap and more not-quite-there-but-isn’t-it-interesting-how-I broke?