Forget the Journey

Forget the journey—
hours cramped in a cabin
with dry air, cigarette smoke,
the tiny plane on the screen
creeping past Shannon,
barely a glimpse of Africa to the south.

Forget the journey.
You do not need to curl yourself
in a metal can and smile
while you defy gravity,
your knees pushed into the seat
ahead and your backside falling asleep,
and the rest of you wide
awake all night.

Forget the journey
through invisible maps of time,
the long ride from the airport,
past canyons of apartment buildings,
balconies crowded with potted plants
and sheets hung out to air
like banners that welcome you.

Even three hours in a station is a relief.
Then the place of your dreams rushes past
as you nod into your dreams.
You sleep through the gray sliding
like a stone
that no one turns over,
like a lover under a spell,
unable to wake until the train
glides into sunlight, and you stumble
to a street of green water.

Six years ago, you went to Venice,
six years that stretch like the gold lions
flying above Saint Mark's.
You did not bring enough words
packed into the pockets of your bag,
although you could count to twenty.
You didn’t want to go.
You always wanted to go.

You could be going now.
Forget the journey.
You just want to sit at a tin table
in Florence, in the morning, in the sun.
You could be writing
or you might put your pen aside.
Then you might walk across town,
stand on the bridge as long as you wanted,
stare at the water sliding by.

Wander the rows of blooms
in the Thursday flower market.
Find the narrowest streets
with windows of prosciutto,
pillows of ravioli.
Feel the mozzarella yield to the knife,
to vinegar, to oil.

Forget the journey.
Already you are thinking
you could be in the other Italy,
the hills inside your heart—
a table under the trees,
platters of simple food
(and no dishes to wash).
This Italy is the sound of pouring,
the talk of wind in small branches,
dusk sinking into the leaves,
a taste of olives on your tongue—
a country of hours to sit and listen.