Laundry Day in Venice

I wonder sometimes if those who dry their clothes
in the alleyways of Venice
think about how their shirts and dresses will look
blowing in the wind, when they buy them,
if they think about what the neighbors see
outerwear and underwear alike ,blowing in the sea wind,
spurring perhaps spurious imaginations, or
does everyone simply become inured to it all,
no one caring what is there and what it means
about the person in apartment 3B.
Does any of it matter to anyone except the tourist
wandering by with a camera and an sense
that everything, even old laundry has a story.

About this poem

When I was in Venice, I enjoyed how many people strung their laundry out to dry. It may be one of the world’s great destinations, but the people who live there are happy to live as they always have, tourists be damned. So the poem is about that.

And it is also about the poets of the world, who often hang out part of their own laundry in words and word images. Never all of it, but enough. Enough to get it out. Enough that readers can see their own stories and maybe, just maybe, be moved.

Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom