From the Piazza del Popolo

You're of the thought you've suffered some kind
Of catastrophe. "Look at this city. It's so
Unclean." "Yes, it is, I assure you, but see how
It lives." We are in a piazza, a pizza between us,
And wine, and company. Everyone speaks.
We are not as we would be back home or in
Disneyland: life antiseptic, approximate, fake,
Where a roll of those wipes meant to conquer
Contagion stands guard at each entrance, and
Where we would go in our cars with our windows
Rolled up against air with its cargo of germs
And the curse of humidity. Should we stay home
On our synthetic floors? Should we shop in the
Malls made to mimic this place, which we
Wandered this morning and sit in, and savor
The plastic environment someone has tailored to
Situate shops, which sell us the Chinese
Equivalents of what we currently see?
We are over, I'm thinking. I'll see you
Back home. You can be an American,
Germless and joyless, and I'll turn around
To be an expatriate. You can tell all of
Your Petri-dish friends how you skirted
Catastrophe. Happily scrubbed, you can go
Visit Disneyland. I will return, and, with
Pizza, and dirt, and everyone speaking, I'll
Feel better off living here.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 30 times
Written on 2012-05-19 at 03:02

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