There won’t be any more of them.
The constant movement on foot or train.
Google Maps redirecting and frustrating us both
as we step like spastics to the
whim of arrows and dotted blue lines.
No more spinning suitcases battling against rut
and cobble, hoisted overhead and dragged
uphill, always uphill. Trying and failing to
follow VRBO host directions to lockboxes holding
expensive keys to drab and uncomfortable apartments.
The vague hope and fragile promise of
standing amid coffee table book beauty, vanished.
The Accademia has no space to contemplate
David’s profundities of proportion, contemplation and strength.
It’s consumed by haphazardly coiffed Insta influencers.
One Euro for the privilege of peeing in
dingy lakeside toilets in need of repair.
Legions of tour groups licking gelato cones
as they meander like oxen over the
Ponte Vecchio, oblivious to their oafish obstruction.
Better to mimic the Matrix and plug
a universe into one’s head than play
chicken with motorcycles, taxis and delivery vans
as they stake claim to another lane
that once accommodated the ambler from abroad.
(May 2026)
Rob S. Friedman 