It's February, ’75,
I'm a sailor in Venice.
Gypsies are parked
in vans on the pier.
The Doge's Palace is closed.
Miss Universe is rumored
to be in town and some
lucky ship will get a visit.
An incessant net
of rain traps all
but the pigeons.
Paying my respects
outside the Gritti,
Hemingway’s favorite
lodging, I sense Inspiration
shadowing me.
Rain dripping off her
wide-brimmed hat,
she snickers while
I translate the plaque
on John Ruskin's house.
The downpour seals
the lips of my dictionary.
Suddenly, I must have a Venetian
haircut and lickety-split a barber
is toweling my sopped head
so vigorously
my imagination rattles.
Later, I dine on artichoke
pizza in a restaurant
where Germans list
celebrities they’ve met.
Gusty rain jerks me
down the pier to the beat
of a Gypsy accordion
as I plot to ambush
smirking Inspiration
with a sharpened
pencil and legal pad,
twist her fickle arm until
she cherishes my words
as greedily as tourists
do a beauty
queen's autograph.
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