Poetry Travel

Firenze (Florence Italy)

No, I’m not in Florence, as this lovely lady has been recently,



but, I am still remembering my honeymoon there over a year and a half ago…



Worn stairs climbed from a walled off city to us

until now

The domed city capped the night off

in a spectacular array of people and gray

brilliant orange over a sparkling river.

The rain fell swiftly around three

the night was misted, no longer wet.

We ate papa pomodoro at Theatro Restaurante

late that evening before returning to our room on piano 2.

Two days and one night in our favorite Italian city so far, Firenze.

That morning

we’d stepped off of an early train and found our hotel easily.

The heavy wooden door unlocked

a green dim courtyard open to the sky

up two flights and through another

keyed entry is where we found our

beautiful comfortable room, red clay tile floors,

a sink, a big bed with a Michelangelo painting

of the Sistine chapel hung over it. The heavy key,

a window with shutters out to our quiet courtyard.

I did laundry in the sink and packed for our bike ride adventure

onward to Sienna the next day.

We walked to the Duomo and climbed to see the city

from there and then went to eat an early lunch at a pizza place on the piazza.

There were places around many corners where I felt I’d been

I’d taken photos in this same place eight years ago

where there was a replica of Michelangelo’s David.

There were rioters and posters telling the ‘truth’ to tourists of people who

Florence didn’t want.

We walked aimlessly, came back to rest in our room for the mid-afternoon rain

We found a beer festival in front of a church, on a Sunday, no less

and tried the Atlantic Oil dark beer, watched young children

drink, watched the interaction of so many people talking

outside in the open air.

From there we walked across the Ponte Vechio bridge into the working man’s

neighborhood. We noticed locks on the chain link -looked like love letters with heart-felt inscriptions.

There was a sunset to be found, before it got too late and if we continued to climb we’d have the promise of finding it.

And we did.

Through the neighborhood where Sunday sales were held

houseware goods and garage sale items were

displayed on the neighbors sheets in the street.

We climbed the last stairs. The grand cafe had closed.

(Ristorante La Loggia ~ Willie Wandrag Photo)

A man played his guitar like a keyboard

vendors were closing up for the night

Michelangelo’s sculptures and paintings were now

trinkets and prints for sale, made in China, shipped to Italy and sold to the Americans.

Maybe that’s what was being debated in the festivals before the church.

We stood in the dark, taking in the lights and the sky,

the murky river and other couples taking pictures of one another.

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