Visiting the Lost City

For years I had hoped. We were so
eager to please; we created dreams, came out of our shell.
The dream was simple.

It’s like this: finding a lost city when you
can’t ask directions, or becoming lost in the middle
of the sound,
halfway between shore and the huge island.
Being human, you think first of those
you love.

It was Tuesday; Tuesdays, normally known
for their passive attitude.
Then we grieve for the city whose profile
was mutilated, just like that.

On the day before Tuesday, after all,
survival, fear and lost
had different meanings than they did the day after.

-by Polly in Virginia (search term ‘lost on a Tuesday’)

In London they hurry over grey leaden pavements, under
grey leaden skies. Slip into bars, sunglassed and beautiful.
Shame on you.

Here, the rules are simple. Drink espresso standing at the bar.
Come meet with the artisans of the famous ceramics village;
bike quiet poplar-lined roads past abandoned villas.
Eat pasta inspired by gods.
A more authentic sound will undoubtedly become
part of your daily routine.

I’ve slept in that piazza, eaten chestnuts, seen a man
with illicit sandwich fixings hidden under clothes. Been chased
by Venus herself.

Just be forewarned, one night might not be enough.

By Polly in VA (search term “bring your own bologna”)