(This is the final and completed poem from the post & exercise begun on Sept 1)
This is my obligatory poem of European travel sites
sprinkled throughout the piece
like les chaises sur la café trottoir.
My reading of other poets tells me
this is a required element
much like the salchow
in a figure skating competition or
including flairs and scissors on the pommel horse.
Should I begin by telling you about the faded pattern
of the curtains draping my breezy window overlooking
the Piazza Santa Croce
or should I tell you about Spain, about the
near-perfect seaside villa of Mazarron and
the school girl who giggled at my froth mustache
as I sipped my ristretto from the tiny porcelain
cup, the delicate handle no bigger
than the ear of a field mouse.
How tepid would your life seem
with its day at the lake and
burger cookout if I spoke of France,
if I went into even the very
minimum of details about making love in
the moon-drenched dunes of Villefranche, drunk,
though with class, on a bottle of Chateau Simard
which was purchased, intending only to toast
our broker and congratulate our good fortune in
finding such a quality camembert in the market.
Perhaps I should hurry and
tell you about Cologne and Frankfurt
before you lose interest, or pretend you are still
reading this while I paint you a picture of
a mundane moment in the Lanarkshires of Scotland.
Wait, don’t go; give me your address and
I’ll send you a postcard from Luxembourg with
a cube of commentary I know you’ll love.
And when you get my letter
handwritten in the Dublin pub
with a pen carved out of mahogany
by an artisan I ran over
with my moped outside Brussels ,
you won’t be surprised to learn that there
are no trailer parks in Venice.
-- rLp --
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