We ran into Naomi and Ed tonight
High above the Tuscany valley.
We felt a zephyr as we took in the sights
Of the duomo and its campinale.
In English we talked of the towns we had seen
On our travels away from the states.
There’s so much to capture here by the stream:
The food in this town is first rate.
The gypsies dried up, or so it appears
As McLaughlin takes photos “al Dente.”
Nothing is worse than the two-dollar fears
Except for God-awful Daisy Fuentes.
Which brings us to Florence, surrounded by trees
That go unrecorded these days.
And the continual saintly pleas
On walls so cracked up they’re a haze.
All this prevented me from taking my life
Too seriously for a week.
So you sit, and I talk, like somebody’s wife
About which stores out-chic the chic.
I’ll best remember the boy on the bike
Or the face of some scurrying maid,
And the bridges with lovers that I don’t look like
Because I never get laid.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1996. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.