Here in the Venice lounge we have no lagoons
we have no gondolas, mountains and lakes are plenty
they silver Sunday afternoons framed by green grass
it rises up towards Placid, where the snow caps into June.
We live in the nub of days, center staged in a cloud's wink
sliding into serpentine streets and dangerous driveways
that lead to hammocks and hell raisers, feeding hounds
that roam fence free along the shore licking life in tail wags.
There is no clear conversation at the morning diner just
updates on where the fish are, obituaries and announcements
no hustle to hassle the soul, you might think we are sleep walking
our world is an oblique obsession where life itself is just that.
In an old Adirondack chair Charley Yeaton blows smoke rings
from a hand carved pipe, they expand and then distort,
resembling his stories drawn from memories of nicks and cuts,
there's rainbow trout on the grill enough for spitting bones
when the beer runs out we fade away into camouflaged cabins.
Nothing much has changed here since I read my history book
all the world's still an apple pie when seen through Rockwell eyes,
someday we might regress and allow a corporate park
all the city folk will come to fill up cubicles
as motor boats pollute the lakes,
but for now my friend Jonathan still
puts on his jeans and carries his canoe
down the winding path whistling,
before he disappears into a 1950's dream.