Finally Satisfied

It is likely a good thing I am not rich. If I were
I would quietly run away, disappear,
greedily spend my days in cafes
along the canals of Venice,
sipping Cappuccino and watching tourists,
breathing in the ancient air content
to let the world around me come done or undone,
no longer reading the news, but instead
books of poetry and Victorian novels,
writing verse in notebooks, sketching
the slow life of a useless ex-patriot,
finding peace for the first time,
not at home, but in a foreign land
where no one knows me, where
the woman I love basks in the fact
that there is only us and this new world,
teenagers with grey hair and an appetite for peace
finally satisfied.

About this poem.

So this painting by Money crossed my desktop this morning and a poem was born. Happens that way sometimes.

Tom