Understanding

The light is different there.
There are two groups of people.
The tourists, trying to get as much in as possible,
and the natives, clinging to their own pace,
livable, feeling somehow eternal,
capable of getting work done and still
having time to watch the city pass by,
letting the crowds wander with bright eyes,
almost feverish – seeing it all, seeing nothing,
missing the light. The shadows, The cobblestones,
The beauty of the workboats, the strong men
carrying in boxes of food on their backs,
missing the old women in the shops
in their high heels and cigarettes,
missing the canals, the small ones
where people live and the food is fresh
and unpretentious and perfect, where
the churches are empty and no less beautiful
than the grand palaces at city center,
Missing the tides, seeing all, seeing nothing,
in such a hurry to see and go to whatever,
where ever is next.

All the while, you sit at the cafe.
Happy not to worry about the next,
content to see, to watch, to learn the patterns
of the day. Even not understanding the language,
understanding somehow, the place

About this poem.

This morning at the diner, my waitress said to me “You see everything that goes on here, don’t you?” I probably do. I am a watcher. I am content to sit. See, Listen. Learn. I like to travel that way too, settle in a place and become part of it for a week or to. When I do that I may see less, but in the end, I see more

The painting is “The Grand Canal” by John Ferguson Wier. 1869ish.