Morning In Venice

We forget it is a city.
There is work to be done
made harder by the canals and exclusion
from the mainland.
Not all the boats are gondoliers.
Not all the people are tourists.
There is an underbelly of effort,
of sweat and docks and injury.
Food is brought in. Trash is removed
as unobtrusively as possible.

But if you know. If you look,
you will see it, the day-to-day grind
no different than cities less glamourous.
That is the nature of work.
It is the same where ever you live.
Blood is blood.
Sweat and sadness burn the eyes.
There is exhaustion,
there for anyone who steps away
from the tour and looks.

Most would prefer not to.
But you are wired differently,
a believer
that the pain makes the beauty more poignant,
more real, more honest
and far, far more valued.

About this poem.

About morning in Venice. About the work that goes into trying to live as normal when we have struggles. I have such respect for others who fight depression, anxiety and all their cousins. Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom